715-3 


STAR-POINTS 


STAR-POINTS 

SONGS  OF  JOY,  FAITH,  AND  PROMISE 
FROM  THE  PRESENT-DAY  POETS 

SELECTED   BY 

MRS.  WALDO  RICHARDS 

*'  The  flaming  of  a  torch  across  the  years 
And  through  the  world  the  rising  of  a  star  " 


BOSTON  ANirTTEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

Ctitier^i&c  pre??  Cambribge 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ3I,  BY  GERTRUDE  MOORE  RICHARDS 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


SIXTH  IMPRESSION,  AUGUST,  Ip23 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


TO  MY  DEAR  FRIENDS 
CORA  LEE  RICE 

AND 

SUSAN  DAY  CLARK 


FOREWORD 

THERE  has  never  been  a  time  in  the  history  of  our  country  when 
the  call  was  more  insistent  for  us  to  emphasize  the  inspiring  note 
of  Emerson's  message: 

"Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star! " 

In  this  period  of  reconstruction,  following  the  awful  cataclysm 
which  has  engulfed  the  entire  world,  there  is  larger  need  than  ever 
before  of  an  uplifting  and  sustaining  faith.  Out  of  this  thought 
has  come  the  title  of  the  book: 

"Star-Points." 

The  selections  chosen  from  the  Modern  Poets  are  such  as 
would  naturally  fall  under  the  points  of  my  star:  Joy,  Vision, 
Love,  Beauty,  Aspiration  —  with  two  attributes  added,  for  we 
may  never  lose  the  association  of  the  Star  with  Faith  and  Promise. 
All  these  "Points "  we  must  grasp  and  hold  if  we  would  be  carried 
through  the  apprehension,  friction,  and  confusion  of  the  present 
time  into  the  clear  vision  of  a  New  Day! 

GERTRUDE  MOORE  RICHARDS 
November,  1920 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

MRS.  RICHARDS  wishes  to  extend  her  sincere  thanks  and  apprecia 
tion,  not  only  to  the  poets  who  have  been  most  gracious  in  their 
cooperation,  but  to  the  publishers  who  have  kindly  permitted  her 
to  reprint  in  this  volume  poems  for  which  they  hold  the  copyrights: 

To  B.  H.  Blackwell,  Ltd.,  Oxford,  for  "Seasons,"  from  The  Sword 
Poems,  by  G.  O.  Warren. 

To  Messrs.  Boni  &  Liveright  for  "The  Cobbler  in  Willow  Street," 
from  the  book  of  the  same  title,  by  George  O'Neil. 

To  Brentano's  for  "The  Mirror  of  all  Ages  are  the  Eyes,"  from 
The  Five  Books  of  Youth,  by  Robert  Hillyer;  "Tell  all  the  World" 
and  "The  Hummingbird,"  from  Chanteys  and  Ballads,  by  Harry 
Kemp;  and  "A  Song  of  April,"  from  The  Complete  Poems  of  Francis 
Ledwidge. 

To  The  Century  Company  for  "A  Birthnight  Candle,"  by  John 
Finley,  from  The  Century  Magazine;  "Brotherhood,"  from  Songs  for 
the  New  Age,  by  James  Oppenheim;  and  "Twilight  Content"  and 
"The  Heart's  Question,"  from  Songs  to  A.  H.  R.,  by  Gale  Young 
Rice. 

To  Messrs.  Dodd,  Mead  &  Company  for  "Afternoon,"  by  Fannie 
Stearns  Davis,  from  The  Masque  of  Poets,  edited  by  Edward  J. 
O'Brien. 

To  Messrs.  George  H.  Doran  Company  for  "Romany  Gold"  and 
"Night  Magic"  from  Hearts  Awake,  by  Amelia  Josephine  Burr; 
"Merchantmen,"  from  Small  Craft,  by  C.  Fox  Smith;  "The  Fairies 
have  never  a  Penny  to  Spend,"  from  Fairies  and  Chimneys,  by  Rose 
Fyleman;  "After  Grieving,"  from  Candles  that  Burn,  by  Aline  Kilmer; 
"Thanksgiving,"  from  Poems,  Essays,  and  Letters,  by  Joyce  Kilmer; 
"To  the  Little  House,"  from  Songs  for  a  Little  House,  by  Christopher 
Morley;  "The  Sacrament  of  Fire,"  from  The  Fiery  Cross,  by  John 
Oxenham;  "The  Birds,"  from  The  Birds,  and  Other  Poems,  by  J.  C. 

ix 


Squire ;  and  "The  Best  Road  of  All "  and  "  A  Prayer  for  the  Old  Cour 
age,"  from  A  World  of  Windows,  by  Charles  Hanson  Towne. 

To  Messrs.  Doubleday  Page  &  Company  for  "A  Ballade-Catalogue 
of  Lovely  Things"  and  "Sacred  Idleness,"  from  The  Junkman,  and 
Other  Poems,  by  Richard  Le  Gallienne;  "The  Dawn  Wind,"  from 
Rudyard  Kipling's  Verse  (Inclusive  Edition);  "The  Divine  Strategy,' 
"Man-Making,"  and  "Courage,  All,"  from  The  Gates  of  Parodist :, 
and  Other  Poems,  and  Shoes  of  Happiness,  and  Other  Poems,  by  Edwin 
Markham. 

To  Messrs.  E.  P.  Dutton  &  Company  for  "Even-Song"  and  "The 
Locomotive  to  the  Little  Boy,"  from  Broken  Music,  by  Benja 
min  R.  C.  Low;  "The  Music  of  a  Tree,"  from  The  Dark  Wind,  by 
W.  J.  Turner;  "Autumn"  and  "De  Glory  Road,"  from  The  Earth 
turns  South,  by  Clement  Wood;  "Every  One  Sang,"  from  Picture- 
Show,  by  Siegfried  Sassoon;  "Out  of  the  Desert,"  from  Lanterns  in 
Gethsemane,  by  Willard  Wattles;  "The  Hoir.ing-Heart,"  from  Life's 
Minstrel,  by  Daniel  Henderson;  and  "  She  became  what  she  beheld," 
from  Gifts,  by  Margaret  Cecilia  Furse  (also  to  Messrs.  Constable  & 
Company,  London). 

To  Mr.  A.  C.  Fifield,  London,  for  "Nature's  Friend"  and  "The 
Best  Friend,"  from  Collected  Poems,  by  William  H.  Davies. 

To  the  Four  Seas  Company  for  stanzas  from  "Variations,"  from 
The  Charnel  Rose,  and  Other  Poems,  by  Conrad  Aiken;  "My  April," 
from  Poems,  by  B.  Preston  Clark,  Jr.;  "Japanese  Hokkus,"  by  Yone 
Noguchi,  from  book  of  same  title;  and  "As  when  Saint  Francis 
walked  the  ways  of  earth"  and  "To  One  who  is  a  Voice,"  from 
Spindrift,  by  James  L.  McLane,  Jr. 

To  Messrs.  Harcourt,  Brace  and  Howe,  for  "The  Ould  Apple 
Woman"  and  "W'en  Spreeng  ees  Com',"  from  Carmina  and  Madri- 
gali,  by  Thomas  Augustine  Daly;  "The  Stirrup-Cup,"  from  Chal 
lenge,  by  Louis  Untermeyer;  lines  from  "The  Roamer"  and  "The 
Old  House,"  from  The  Roamer,  and  Other  Poems,  by  George  Edward 
Woodberry. 

To  Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers  for  "Three  Swords,"  from  Poems, 
by  Dana  Burnet;  "The  Birth,"  from  Dreams  and  Dust,  by  Don 

x 


Marquis;  "  Wind-in-the-Hair  and  Rain-in-the-Face,"  from  The  Mirth 
ful  Lyre,  by  Arthur  Guiterman;  and  "Love's  Island,"  by  Ian  Oliver 
(Mrs.  L.  J.  Salisbury),  "The  Superman,"  by  Albert  Bigelow  Paine, 
"The  Valley's  Singing  Day,"  by  Robert  Frost,  and  "Tell  me  your 
Dream,"  by  Edith  Thomas,  from  Harper's  Magazine. 

To  the  Harvard  University  Press  for  "The  Poet"  from  Life  Im 
movable,  by  Kostes  Palamas  (translated  by  Aristides  E.  Phoutrides). 

To  Messrs.  Henry  Holt  &  Company  for  "Joy  to  You"  and  "Hope's 
Song,"  from  The  Cairn  of  Stars  and  My  Ireland,  by  Francis  Carlin; 
"There  was  a  Moon,  there  was  a  Star,"  from  Portraits  and  Protests, 
by  Sarah  Cleghorn;  "The  Whole  Duty  of  Berkshire  Brooks,"  and 
"I  have  cared  for  you,  Moon,"  from  Wilderness  Songs,  by  Grace 
Hazard  Conkling;  "The  Mocking  Fairy,"  "  Miss  Loo,"  and  "Winter," 
from  Collected  Poems,  by  Walter  de  la  Mare;  "Monotone,"  from 
Chicago  Poems,  by  Carl  Sandburg;  "Refuge"  and  "The  Great  Di 
vide,"  from  Many,  Many  Moons,  by  Lew  Sarett;  "Sowing,"  from 
Poems,  by  Edward  Thomas;  "A  Man,"  from  These  Times,  by  Louis 
Untermeyer;  and  "Mother-Prayer,"  from  The  Old  Road  to  Paradiset 
and  Other  Poems,  by  Margaret  Widdemer. 

To  Messrs.  Houghton  Mifflin  Company  for  "Storm, "from  The 
Shoes  that  Danced,  by  Anna  Hempstead  Branch;  "Green  Crosses" 
and  "The  Lost  Playmate,"  from  Heart  of  New  England  and  Fresh 
Posies,  by  Abbie  Farwell  Brown;  "Dominion,"  from  Poems,  1908- 
1919,  by  John  Drinkwater;  "Faith"  and  "The  Wakeful  Dark,"  from 
Clouds  and  Cobblestones,  by  Hortense  Flexner;  "The  Hill-Born," 
from  In  the  High  Hills,  by  Maxwell  Struthers  Burt;  "Alms,"  from 
The  Singing  Leaves,  by  Josephine  Preston  Peabody;  "The  Sun  Wor 
shipers,"  from  Songs  of  the  Trail,  by  Henry  Herbert  Knibbs;  "After 
Two  Years,"  by  Richard  Aldington,  from  Some  Imagist  Poets,  1916; 
"The  Tryst"  and  "To  Browning,  the  Music  Master,"  from  The 
White  Comrade,  by  Robert  Haven  Schauffler; "  Pandora's  Song," 
from  Poems  and  Poetic  Dramas,  by  William  Vaughn  Moody;  "Eastei 
Song,"  by  Stuart  Merrill,  and  "Out  of  the  Deep,"  by  Charles  Gue"rin, 
from  Fleurs-de-Lys  (translated  and  edited  by  Wilfred  Thorley); 
"Windows,"  from  The  Door  of  Dreams,  by  Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse; 

ri 


"Obligation,"  "A  Sprig  of  Rosemary,"  and  "Winter's  Turning," 
from  Sword  Blades  and  Poppy  Seed  and  Pictures  of  the  Floating  World, 
by  Amy  Lowell;  and  "The  Flower  Factory,"  from  The  Ride  Home, 
by  Florence  Wilkinson  Evans. 

To  Mr.  B.  W.  Huebsch  for  "Bell  of  Dawn,"  by  Paul  Fort,  from 
The  Poets  of  Modern  France,  translated  by  Ludwig  Lewisohn;  and 
"A  Tree  at  Dusk"  and  "Driftwood,"  from  The  Hesitant  Heart,  by 
Winifred  Welles. 

To  Mr.  Alfred  A.  Knopf  for  "The  Home  Land,"  by  Witter  Bynner 
(translated  from  the  French  of  fimile  Cammaerts),  from  A  Canticle  of 
Pan,  and  Other  Poems;  "A  Pinch  of  Salt,"  from  Fairies  and  Fusi 
liers,  by  Robert  Graves;  and  "The  Great  Man"  and  "Completion," 
from  Body  and  Raiment,  by  Eunice  Tietjens. 

To  John  Lane  Company  for  "To  One  I  Love"  and  "What  if  we 
made  our  senses  so  astute,"  from  Tossed  Coins,  by  Amory  Hare;  "My 
Lips  would  Sing  —  "  from  My  Ship,  and  Other  Verses,  by  Edmund 
Leamy;  "Salutation  to  the  Eternal  Peace,"  from  The  Bird  of  Time, 
by  Sarojini  Naidu;  and  "Resurrection,"  from  The  Hour  has  Struck, 
and  Other  Poems,  by  Angela  Morgan. 

To  Messrs.  Little,  Brown  &  Company  for  "The  Childher,"  from 
Heart  Songs  and  Home  Songs,  by  Denis  A.  McCarthy. 

To  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green  &  Company  for  "Sonnet,"  from 
Poems,  by  Sir  Cecil  Arthur  Spring-Rice. 

To  Mr.  David  McKay  for  "Quantity  and  Quality,"  from  The 
Songs  of  Leinster,  by  W.  M.  Letts. 

To  The  Macmillan  Company  for  "Star-Song,"  from  Poems,  by 
Gladys  Cromwell;  "A  New  Star"  and  "The  Listener,"  from  Snow 
Birds,  by  £ri  Ananda  Acharya;  "When  Peter  Jackson  preached  in 
the  Old  Church"  and  "In  Memory  of  my  Friend  Joyce  Kilmer," 
from  The  Golden  Whales  of  California,  by  Vachel  Lindsay;  "On  Grow 
ing  Old"  and  "Roses  are  Beauty,"  from  Enslaved,  and  Other  Poems 
and  Good  Friday,  and  Other  Poems,  by  John  Masefield;  "Johnny 
Appleseed,"  from  Towards  the  Gulf,  by  Edgar  Lee  Masters;  "The 
Journey,"  from  The  New  Day,  by  Scudder  Middleton;  "On  the 
Verandah,"  from  The  Tree  of  Life,  by  John  Gould  Fletcher;  "The 

xii 


Gift  of  God,"  from  The  Man  against  the  Sky,  by  Edwin  Arlington 
Robinson;  "The  Cell,"  from  Escape  and  Fantasy,  by  George  Ros- 
trevor;  "Stars,"  "The  Coin,"  and  "Peace,"  from  Flame  and  Shadow 
and  Love  Songs,  by  Sara  Teasdale;  "Semi-Choruses"  and  "Chorus," 
from  The  Dynasts,  by  Thomas  Hardy;  "A  Chant  Out-of -Doors"  and 
"The  Air,"  from  Bluestone,  by  Marguerite  Wilkinson;  and  "The 
Wild  Swans  of  Coole,"  from  Poems,  by  William  Butler  Yeats. 

To  the  Manas  Press  for  "Cradle-Song,"  from  Verses,  by  Adelaide 
Crapsey. 

To  Mr.  Elkin  Mathews,  London,  and  to  Mr.  Binyon  personally  for 
"A  Song"  and  "The  Things  that  Grow,"  from  The  Secret:  Sixty  Poems, 
by  Laurence  Binyon. 

To  Messrs.  Maunsel  &  Company,  Ltd.,  Dublin,  and  to  Mr.  Camp 
bell  personally  for  "  The  Old  Woman,"  from  Irishry,  by  Joseph  Camp 
bell  (Seosamh  MacCathmhaoil). 

To  Mr.  Harold  Monro,  The  Poetry  Bookshop,  London,  for  "The 
Bird  at  Dawn"  and  "Week-End,"  from  Strange  Meetings,  by  Harold 
Monro. 

To  Mr.  Thomas  Bird  Mosher  for  "The  Pines,"  "Dusk  at  Sea," 
and  "The  Gifts  of  Peace,"  from  The  Voice  in  the  Silence,  by  Thomas 
S.  Jones,  Jr.;  "Poetry,"  by  Ella  Crosby  Heath,  from  Amphora,  com 
piled  by  T.  B.  Mosher;  and  "Immortality,"  from  A  Handful  of 
Lavender,  by  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese. 

To  Messrs.  Norman,  Remington  Company,  Baltimore,  and  to  Miss 
Reese  personally  for  "His  Mother  in  her  Hood  of  Blue,"  from  Spice- 
wood,  by  Lizette  Woodworth  Reese. 

To  Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  for  "The  Road's  End,"  from  .As 
the  Larks  Rise,  by  Theodosia  Garrison;  "Moonflowers,"  "Revela 
tion,"  and  "Who  walks  with  Beauty,"  from  Ships  in  Harbor,  by 
David  Morton;  and  "Hermit  Thrush,"  from  The  Potter's  Clay,  by 
Marie  Tudor. 

To  Mr.  A.  M.  Robertson  for  "The  Guerdon  of  the  Sun"  and 
"Aldebaran  at  Dusk,"  from  The  House  of  Orchids,  by  George  Sterling. 

To  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  "As  we  po  on,"  from  Songs 
and  Portraits,  by  Maxwell  Struthers  Burt;  "One  Hour,"  from  The 


Call  of  Brotherhood,  by  Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson;  "Thanks  from 
Earth  to  Heaven,"  from  Dust  and  Light,  by  John  Hall  Wheelock;  and 
"To  such  as  play  only  the  Bass  Viol,"  by  John  Finley,  and  "In  the 
Hospital,"  by  Arthur  Guiterman,  from  Scribner's  Magazine. 

To  Messrs.  Small,  Maynard  &  Company  for  "  Triumph alis,"  from 
Echoes  from  Vagabondia,  by  Bliss  Carman;  and  "Heroes,"  from  The 
Heart  of  Peace,  by  Laurence  Housman. 

To  Messrs.  Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company  for  "Neighbors,"  from 
Grenstone  Poems,  by  Witter  Bynner;  "The  Lonesome  Wave,"  from 
Poems  by  a  Little  Girl,  by  Hilda  Conkling;  "Angeline,"  from  High 
Company,  by  Harry  Lee;  "Last  Song  in  an  Opera,"  from  Ardours 
and  Endurances,  by  Robert  Nichols;  "The  Little  Roads,"  from  The 
New  Morning,  and  "The  Elfin  Artist,"  from  book  of  same  title,  by 
Alfred  Noyes;  and  "Life,"  from  Poems,  by  Cecil  Roberts. 

To  Messrs,  James  T.  White  &  Company  for  "Sainte  Jeanne  of 
France,"  from  The  Final  Star,  by  Marian  Couthouy  Smith. 

To  The  Yale  University  Press  for  "The  Ploughman"  and  "Leaf- 
Burning,"  from  Blue  Smoke,  by  Karle  Wilson  Baker;  "The  Falconer 
of  God  "  and  "  Her  Way,"  from  The  Falconer  of  God,  and  Other  Poems 
and  Perpetual  Light,  by  William  Rose  Bene"t;  "A  Hillside  Farmer" 
and  "Alone,"  from  Forgotten  Shrines,  by  John  Chipman  Farrar; 
and  "The  Little  Shepherd's  Song,"  from  April  Once,  by  William 
Alexander  Percy. 

To  the  Athenaeum  (London)  for  "Nostalgia,"  by  Iris  Tree. 

To  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for  "A  Blackbird  Suddenly,"  by  Joseph 
Auslander. 

To  the  Churchman  for  "Candle- Lighting  Song"  and  "Counter 
sign,"  by  Arthur  Ketchum. 

To  Contem-porary  Verse  for  "Morning  Song,"  by  Karle  Wilson 
Baker;  "Idyl,"  by  Amanda  Benjamin  Hall;  "Friends,"  by  Vlyn 
Johnson;  "Moonlight  in  the  Birch  Wood,"  by  Antoinette  DeCour- 
sey  Patterson;  "The  Meeting,"  by  Edward  J.  O'Brien;  "The  Natu 
ralist  on  a  June  Sunday,"  by  Leonora  Speyer;  and  "Hope,"  by 
Gamaliel  Bradford. 

xiv 


To  the  Dial  for  "The  Singers  in  a  Cloud,"  by  Eidgely  Torrence. 

To  the  Forum  for  "Rank,"  by  Ralph  M.  Thompson. 

To  Good  Housekeeping  for  "The  Philosopher,"  by  Sara  Teasdale. 

To  the  King  Features  Syndicate,  Inc.,  for  "A  Song  of  the  New  World," 
by  Angela  Morgan. 

To  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal  for  "Aloha,"  by  William  Griffith, 
nnd  "The  Mother  in  the  House,"  by  Hermann  Hagedorn. 

To  McCall's  Magazine  for  "A  B  C's  in  Green,"  by  Leonora 
Speyer. 

To  the  New  Witness  (London)  for  "Chopin  Prelude,"  by  Hon. 
Eleanour  Norton. 

To  the  New  York  Evening  Post  for  "A  Flemish  Madonna,"  by 
Charles  Wharton  Stork. 

To  the  New  York  Herald  for  "The  Conqueror,"  by  Morris  Abel 
Beer. 

To  the  New  York  Sun  for  "  Gifts,"  by  Blanche  Shoemaker  Wagstaff . 

To  the  New  York  Times  for  "Late  Plowing"  and  "Hold  Fast 
your  Dreams,"  by  Louise  Driscoll. 

To  the  Outlook  for  "The  Christmas  Carol  of  the  Bees,"  by  Nora 
Archibald  Smith. 

To  Poetry,  a  Magazine  of  Verse  (Chicago)  for  "America,"  by  Har 
riet  Monroe,  and  "The  Little  Tavern,"  by  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay. 

To  the  San  Diego  Sun  for  "Dawn,"  by  Grace  Atherton  Dennen. 

To  the  Saturday  Evening  Post  and  to  Miss  Davies  personally  for 
"  Sea-Gull  Song,"  by  Mary  Carolyn  Davies. 

To  the  Sewanee  Review  for  "Promise,"  by  Norreys  Jephson 
O'Conor. 

To  the  Yale  Review  for  "Lyrical  Epigrams,"  by  Edith  Wharton; 
"Thrift,"  by  John  Drinkwater;  and  "Onset"  and  "Snow-Dust,"  by 
Robert  Frost. 

To  the  Youth's  Companion  for  "Click  o'  the  Latch,"  by  Nancy 
Byrd  Turner. 

Personal  acknowledgment  is  also  made  to  the  following  poets  and 
"ndividual  owners  of  copyrights: 

xv 


To  Miss  Katharine  Lee  Bates  for  "The  Star  of  Bethlehem"  (in 
manuscript). 

To  The  Cambridge  University  Press  and  Professor  William  R.  Sor- 
ley  for  "Expectans  Expectavi,"  from  Marlborough,  and  Other  Poems, 
by  Captain  Charles  Hamilton  Sorley. 

To  Mrs.  Florence  Earle  Coates  for  "Live  thy  Life"  and  "After." 

To  Fannie  Stearns  Davis  (Mrs.  A.  McK.  Gifford)  for  "I  sing  no 
more  "(in  manuscript). 

To  Mrs.  Jeanne  Robert  Foster  for  "Tell  me,  what  is  Poetry  —  " 
(in  manuscript)  and  "The  Backslider,"  horn  Neighbors  of  Yesterday, 
published  by  Messrs.  Sherman,  French  &  Company. 

To  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  for  "Dawn  Song"  from  Rudyard  Kip 
ling's  Verse,  Inclusive  Edition,  1885-1918. 

To  Mr.  Scudder  Middletcn  for  "A  Woman,"  from  Streets  and 
Faces,  published  by  The  Little  Book  Publishing  Company. 

To  Miss  Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay  for  "Travel"  and  "The  Little 
Tavern." 

To  Miss  Sarah  Metcalf  Phipps  for  "A  Summer  Day"  (in  manu 
script). 

To  Ada  M.  Roberts  (Mrs.  Odin  Roberts)  for  "Even  the  least  of 
these"  (in  manuscript). 

To  Mr.  Clinton  Scollard  for  "Beauty"  and  "Aspiration." 

To  Mrs.  May  Riley  Smith  for  "My  Life  is  a  Bowl"  and  "The 
Tree-Top  Road"  (in  manuscript). 

To  Mr.  Charles  Wharton  Stork  for  "Invocation." 

To  Mr.  John  Hall  Wheelock  for  "The  Modern  Man,"  from  The 
Beloved  Vagabond,  published  by  Messrs.  Sherman,  French  &  Com 
pany. 

To  Mrs.  Frederic  A.  Whiting  for  "A  Roadside  Singer,"  by  Frederic 
A.  Whiting. 


CONTENTS 

A  B  C's  in  Green.    Leonora  Speyer       72 

After.    Florence  Eark  Coates 175 

After  Grieving.    Aline  Kilmer 131 

After  Two  Years.    Richard  Aldington 44 

Afternoon.    Fannie  Stearns  Davis 95 

Air,  The.     Marguerite  Wilkinson 69 

Aldebaran  at  Dusk.     George  Sterling     .........  147 

Alms.     Josephine  Preston  Peabody 139 

Aloha.     William  Griffith 36 

Alone.    John  Chipman  Farrar 146 

America.    Harriet  Monroe 214 

And  to  such  as  Play  only  the  Bass  Viol.    John  Finky   ....  106 

Angeline.    Harry  Lee 167 

April,  My.    B.  Preston  Clark,  Jr 18 

As  We  Go  On.     Maxwell  Struthers  Burt     ........  209 

"As  when  Saint  Francis  walked  the  ways  of  earth."    James  L. 

McLane,  Jr 119 

Aspiration.     Clinton  Scollard 15 

Autumn.     Clement  Wood .  189 

Backslider,  The.    Jeanne  Robert  Foster 181 

Ballade-Catalogue  of  Lovely  Things,  A.     Richard  Le  Gallienne .  9 

Beauty.     Clinton  Scollard 27 

xvii 


Bell  of  Dawn.     Paul  Fort  (translated  by  Ludwig  Lewisohri)    .    .  195 

Best  Friend,  The.     William  H.  Davies       37 

Best  Road  of  All,  The.     Charles  Hanson  Tovme 67 

Bird  at  Dawn,  The.    Harold  Monro 196 

*";irds,  The.     J.  C.  Squire 120 

3irth,  The.    Don  Marquis 199 

Birthnight  Candle,  A.    John  Finky 135 

Blackbird  Suddenly,  A.    Joseph  Auslander 21 

Brotherhood.    James  Oppenheim       117 

Browning,  the  Music  Master,  To.    Robert  Haven  Schauffler  .     .  142 

Candle-lighting  Song.    (Dedicated  to  A.  van  B.)    Arthur  Ketchum  141 

Cell,  The.     George  Rostrevor 70 

Chant  out  of  Doors,  A.     Marguerite  Wilkinson 28 

Childher,  The.    Denis  A.  McCarthy 54 

Chopin  Prelude.    Hon.  Eleanour  Norton 152 

Christmas  Carol  of  the  Bees,  The.    Nora  Archibald  Smith    .    .  198 

Click  o*  the  Latch.    Nancy  Byrd  Turner 45 

Cobbler  in  Willow  Street,  The.    George  O'Neil 59 

Coin,  The.    Sara  Teasdak       94 

Coming  of  Dawn,  The.    Grace  Atherton  Dennen 221 

Completion.    Eunice  Tietjens       41 

Conqueror,  The.    Morris  Abel  Beer       . 102 

Countersign.    Arthur  Ketchum 77 

Courage,  All!    Edwin  Markham 219 

Oradle-Song.    Adelaide  Crapsey 200 

xviii 


Dawn  Wind,  The.     Rudyard  Kipling 4 

De  Glory  Road.     Clement  Wood .100 

Divine  Strategy,  The.    Edwin  Markham 214 

Dominion.    John  Drinkwater 104 

Driftwood.     Winifred  Welles 141 

Dusk  at  Sea.    Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 47 

Easter  Song.    Stuart  Merrill  (translated  from  the  French  by  Wil 
fred  Thorky)       24 

Elfin  Artist,  The.    Alfred  Noyes        11 

"Even  the  least  of  these."     Ada  M.  Roberts       205 

Even-Song.    Benjamin  R.  C.  Low 46 

Every  One  Sang.     Siegfried  Sassoon 211 

Expectans  Expectavi.     Charles  Hamilton  Sorley 107 

Faith.     Hortense  Flexner 191 

Falconer  of  God,  The.     William  Rose  Benet 38 

Flemish  Madonna,  A.     Charles  Wharton  Stork 117 

Flower  Factory,  The.     Florence  Wilkinson  Evans 174 

Friends.     Vlyn  Johnson 83 

Friendship.    Edith  Wharton 140 

Gift  of  God,  The.    Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 50 

Gifts.    Blanche  Shoemaker  Wagstaff 27 

Gifts  of  Peace,  The.     Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 108 

Glory  Road,  De.    Clement  Wood 100 

•fat 


Great  Divide,  The.    Lew  Sarett 155 

Great  Man,  The.    Eunice  Tietjens 96 

Green  Crosses.    Abbie  Farwell  Brown 203 

Growing  Old,  On.    John  Mase field    ....    *    .\    .    .    .178 
Guerdon  of  the  Sun,  The.     George  Sterling 6 

Heart's  Question,  The.     Cole  Young  Rice 176 

Her  Way.     William  Rose  Benet 48 

Hermit  Thrush.    Marie  Tudor 34 

Heroes.    Laurence  Housman 213 

Hill-born,  The.    Maxwell  Struthers  Burt 183 

Hillside  Farmer,  A.     John  Chipman  Farrar 184 

His  Mother  in  her  Hood  of  Blue.    Lizette  Woodworth  Reeae  .    .  201 

"  Hold  fast  your  dreams."     Louise  Driscoll 60 

Home-Land,  The.     Witter  Bynner  (from  the  French  of  Smile 

Cammaerts) 136 

Homing  Heart,  The.     Daniel  Henderson 165 

Hope.     Gamaliel  Bradford 173 

Hope's  Song.     Francis  Carlin       99 

Hummingbird,  The.     Harry  Kemp 93 

"  I  have  cared  for  you,  Moon."    Grace  Hazard  Oonkling  ...      6 
"I  sing  no  more."    Fannie  Stearns  Davis       .......     53 

Idyl.    Amanda  Benjamin  Hatt 154 

Immortality.    Lizette  Woodworth  Reese 192 

In  Memory  of  my  Friend  Joyce  Kilmer,  Poet  and  Soldier. 

Vachel  Lindsay . 128 

xx 


In  Salutation  to  the  Eternal  Peace.    Sarojini  Naidu  .    .    .  -  .  218 

In  the  Hospital.    Arthur  Guiterman 99 

Invocation.     Charles  Wharton  Stork 150 

Japanese  Hokkus.     Yone  Noguchi 116 

Johnny  Appleseed.    Edgar  Lee  Masters 159 

Journey,  The.    Scudder  Middkton 113 

Joy  to  You.    Francis  Carlin 218 

Last  Song  in  an  Opera.    Robert  Nichols 17 

Late  Plowing.    Louise  Driscoll 22 

Leaf -Burning.    Karle  Wilson  Baker 14 

Life.     Cecil  Roberts 211 

Lines  from  "  The  Roamer."     George  Edward  Woodberry  ...  40 

Listener,  The.    £ri  Ananda  Ach&rya 90 

Little  House,  To  the.     Christopher  Morley 131 

Little  Roads,  The.    Alfred  Noyes 149 

Little  Shepherd's  Song,  The.     William  Alexander  Percy       .    .151 

Little  Tavern,  The.    Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 63 

Live  thy  Life.     Florence  Earle  Coates 114 

Locomotive  to  the  Little  Boy,  The.    Benjamin  R.  C.  Low    .    .  58 

Lonesome  Wave,  The.    Hilda  Conkling 62 

Lost  Playmate,  The.    Abbie  Farwell  Brown 145 

Love's  Island.    Ian  Oliver 45 

Lyrical  Epigrams.    Edith  Wharton 140 

Man,  A.    Louis  Untermeyer 126 

Man-making.    Edwin  Markham 125 

fed 


Meeting,  The.    Edward  J.  O'Brien 103 

Merchantmen.     C.  Fox  Smith 171 

Miss  Loo.     Walter  de  la  Mare      ,'    . 163 

Mocking  Fairy,  The.     Walter  de  la  Mare 31 

Modern  Man,  To  the.    John  Hall  Wheelock 124 

Monotone.     Carl  Sandburg 23 

Moonflowers.    David  Morton 33 

Moonlight  in  the  Birch  Wood.     Antoinette  DeCoursey  Patterson  .  144 

Morning  Song.     Karle  Wilson  Baker 42 

Mother  in  the  House,  The.     Hermann  Hagedorn 98 

Mother-Prayer.     Margaret  Widdemer 52 

Music  of  a  Tree,  The.     W.  J.  Turner 13 

My  April.    B.  Preston  Clark,  Jr 18 

"My  life  is  a  bowl."    May  Riley  Smith 165 

"  My  lips  would  sing  —  "    Edmund  Leamy 164 

Naturalist  on  a  June  Sunday,  The.    Leonora  Speyer   ....    29 

Nature's  Friend.     William  H.  Davies 32 

Neighbors.     Witter  Bynner 125 

New  Star,  A.    £rt  Ananda  Acharya 221 

Night  Magic.    Amelia  Josephine  Burr       57 

Nostalgia.    Iris  Tree 138 

Obligation.    Amy  Lowell 166 

Old  House,  The.     George  Edward  Woodberry       178 

Old  Woman,  The.    Joseph  Campbell  (Seosamh  MacCathmhaoil)  .  Ill 

xxii 


On  Growing  Old.     John  Masefield ITS 

On  the  Verandah.     John  Gould  Fktcher     .     .    .  •"..'..    ...     79 

One  Hour.     Corinne  Roosevelt  Robinson 81 

Onset,  The.     Robert  Frost V  .    .    .     .194 

Ould  Apple  Woman,  The.  Thomas  Augustine  Daly  ....  161 
Out  of  the  Deep.  Charles  Guerin  (translated  by  Wilfred  Thorky).  112 
Out  of  the  Desert.  Willard  Wattles 210 

Pandora's  Song.     William  Vaughn  Moody      . 2 

Peace.    Sara  Teasdale 109 

Philosopher,  The.     Sara  Teasdale 180 

Pinch  of  Salt,  A.     Robert  Graves 105 

Pines,  The.     Thomas  S.  Jones,  Jr 14 

Ploughman,  The.     Karle  Wilson  Baker 85 

Poet,  The.     Kostes  Palamas  (translated  by  Aristides  E.  Phou- 

trides) 89 

Poetry.     Ella  Crosby  Heath 10 

Prayer  for  the  Old  Courage,  A.     Charles  Hanson  Towne       .    .      7 

Promise.     Norreys  Jephson  O'Conor 207 

Puddle,  The.    Eden  Phillpotts 189 

Quantity  and  Quality.     W.  M.  Letts 54 

Rank.    Ralph  M.  Thompson < .    .  167 

Refuge.    LewSarett 18<1 

Resurrection.    Angela  Morgan ,    .    .    21 

xxiii 


Revelation.    David  Morton      ............    75 

Road's  End,  The.     Theodosia  Garrison 68 

Roadside  Singer,  A.    Frederic  A.  Whiting 148 

"Roamer,  The,"  Lines  from.    George  Edward  Woodberry      .    .    40 

Romany  Gold.    Amelia  Josephine  Burr 63 

"Roses  are  beauty."    John  Mase field 91 

Sacrament  of  Fire,  The.    John  Oxenham 132 

Sacred  Idleness.     Richard  Le  Gallienne 64 

Sainte  Jeanne  of  France.    Marian  Couthouy  Smith      ....    84 

Sea-Gull  Song.    Mary  Carolyn  Dairies 78 

Seasons.     Gretchen  0.  Warren       190 

Semi-Choruses  and  Chorus  from  "  The  Dynasts."  Thomas  Hardy  223 
"She  became  what  she  beheld."    Margaret  Cecilia  Furse      .    .    70 

Singers  in  a  Cloud,  The.    Ridgely  Torrence 212 

Snow  Dust.     Robert  Frost 195 

Song,  A.     Laurence  Binyon 170 

Song  of  April,  A.     Francis  Ledwidge 20 

Song  of  the  New  World.     Angela  Morgan 220 

Sonnet.    Sir  Cecil  Arthur  Spring-Rice 134 

Sowing.     Edward  Thomas 23 

Sprig  of  Rosemary,  A.    Amy  Lowell 47 

Spring.    Edith  Wharton       .    .    . 140 

Stanzas  from  "Variations."    Conrad  Aiken 110 

Star  of  Bethlehem,  The.    Katharine  Lee  Bates 197 

Star  Song.    Gladys  Cromwell .103 

V.20UV 


Stars.    Sara  Teasdde .  3 

Stirrup-Cup,  The.    Louis  Untermeyer 166 

Storm,  The.    Anna  Hempslead  Branch •  185 

Summer  Day,  A.  (Dedicated  to  G.  M.  R.)  Sarah  Metcalf  Phipps  35 

Sun- Worshipers,  The.    Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 157 

Superman,  The.    Albert  Bigelow  Paine 114 

,Tell  All  the  World.    Harry  Kemp 71 

"Tell  me,  what  is  poetry — "     Jeanne  Robert  Foster    ....     89 

"Tell  me  your  dream."    Edith  M.  Thomas 153 

Thanks  from  Earth  to  Heaven.    John  Hall  Wheelock       ...    86 

Thanksgiving.    Joyce  Kilmer 86 

"The  Fairies  have  never  a  penny  to  spend."  Rose  Fyleman  .  145 
"The  mirror  of  all  ages  are  the  eyes."  Robert  Hillyer  ...  94 
"There  was  a  moon,  there  was  a  star."  Sarah  N.  Cleghorn .  .147 

Things  that  Grow,  The.    Laurence  Binyon     . 177 

Three  Swords.     Dana  Burnet        172 

Thrift.    John  Drinkwater 76 

To  Browning,  the  Music  Master.     Robert  Haven  Schaujfler        .  142 

To  One  I  Love.    Amory  Hare 41 

To  One  who  is  a  Voice.    James  L.  McLane,  Jr Ill 

To  the  Little  House.     Christopher  Morky 131 

To  the  Modern  Man.    John  Hall  Wheelock 124 

Travel.    Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 158 

Tree  at  Dusk,  A.     Winifred  Welles 13 

Tree-Top  Road,  The.    May  Riley  Smith 65 

xxv 


Triumphalis.    Bliss  Carman    ............     16 

Tryst,  The.     Robert  Haven  Schauffler     .........    f 

Twilight  Content.     Cole  Young  Rice      .........  lit* 

VaUey's  Singing  Day,  The.    Robert  Frost       .......    4T 

"Variations,"  Stanzas  from.    Conrad  Aiken  .......  110 

Wakeful  Dark,  The.     Hortense  Flemer      ........  208 

Week-End.     Harold  Monro      ............     72 

Wen  Spreeng  ees  Com  '.     T.A.Daly  .........     19 

"What  if  we  made  our  senses  so  astute."    Amory  Hare  ...     93 
When  Peter  Jackson  Preached  in  the  Old  Church.     Vachel 
Lindsay      ..................  118 

"Who  walks  with  Beauty."     David  Morton   .......      8 

Whole  Duty  of  Berkshire  Brooks,  The.     Grace  Hazard  Conkling  .     79 
Wild  Swans  at  Coole,  The.     William  Butler  Yeats       .    .    .     .156 

Wind-in-the-Hair  and  Rain-in-the-Face.     Arthur  Guiterman      .  187 
Windows.    Jessie  B.  Rittenhouse       ..........    95 

Winter.     Walter  de  la  Mare      ............  192 

Winter's  Turning.    Amy  Lowell   ...........  205 

Woman,  A.    Scudder  Middkton    ........    »    .    .    97 


Index  of  Authors 


STAR-POINTS 


PANDORA'S  SONG 

Of  wounds  and  sore  defeat 

I  made  my  battle  stay; 

Winged  sandals  for  my  feet 

I  wove  of  my  delay; 

Of  weariness  and  fear, 

I  made  my  shouting  spear; 

Of  loss,  and  doubt,  and  dread, 

And  swift  oncoming  doom 

I  made  a  helmet  for  my  head 

And  a  floating  plume. 

From  the  shutting  mist  of  death, 

From  the  failure  of  the  breath, 

I  made  a  battle-horn  to  blow 

Across  the  vales  of  overthrow. 

0  hearken,  love,  the  battle-horn! 

The  triumph  clear,  the  silver  scorn! 

0  hearken  where  the  echoes  bring, 

Down  the  grey  disastrous  morn, 

Laughter  and  rallying! 

WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 


STAR-POINTS 


STARS 

ALONE  in  the  night 

On  a  dark  hill 
With  pines  around  me 

Spicy  and  still, 

And  a  heaven  full  of  stars 

Over  my  head, 
White  and  topaz 

And  misty  red; 

Myriads  with  beating 

Hearts  of  fire 
That  aeons 

Cannot  vex  or  tire; 

Up  the  dome  of  heaven 

Like  a  great  hill, 
I  watch  them  marching 

Stately  and  still, 
3 


And  I  know  that  I 

Am  honored  to  be 
Witness 

Of  so  much  majesty. 

SARA  TEASDALE 


THE  DAWN  WIND 

[THE  FIFTEENTH  CENTURY] 

AT  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  if  you  open  your  window  and 

listen, 

You  will  hear  the  feet  of  the  Wind  that  is  going  to  call  the  sun. 
And  the  trees  in  the  shadow  rustle  and  the  trees  in  the  moonlight 

glisten, 
And  though  it  is  deep,  dark  night,  you  feel  that  the  night  is  done. 

So  do  the  cows  in  the  field.  They  graze  for  an  hour  and  lie  down, 
Dozing  and  chewing  the  cud;  or  a  bird  in  the  ivy  wakes, 
Chirrups  one  note  and  is  still,  and  the  restless  Wind  strays  on, 
Fidgeting  far  down  the  road,  till,  softly,  the  darkness  breaks. 

Back  comes  the  Wind  full  strength  with  a  blow  like  an  angel's 

wing, 

Gentle  but  waking  the  world,  as  he  shouts:  "The  Sun!  The  Sun!" 
And  the  light  floods  over  the  fields  and  the  birds  begin  to  sing, 
And  the  Wind  dies  down  in  the  grass.  It  is  day  and  his  work  is 

done. 

4 


So  when  the  world  is  asleep,  and  there  seems  no  hope  of  her 

waking 
Out  of  some  long,  bad  dream  that  makes  her  mutter  and 

moan, 

Suddenly,  all  men  arise  to  the  noise  of  fetters  breaking, 
ind  every  one  smiles  at  his  neighbor  and  tells  him  his  soul  is  his 
own! 

RUDYAKD  KIPLING 


THE  GUERDON  OF  THE  SUN 

OF  all  the  fonts  from  which  man's  heart  has  drawn 
Some  essence  of  the  majesty  of  earth, 
Some  intimation  of  the  human  worth, 

I  reckon  first  the  sunset  and  the  dawn. 

For  those  were  fires  whose  splendor  smote  his  clay 
With  witness  of  a  light  beyond  the  clod; 
Enshrined,  he  made  of  radiance  a  god, 

And  found  his  benediction  in  the  day. 

And  all  his  eager  hands  have  found  to  do,- 
And  all  his  tireless  hope  and  love  unite, 
In  some  wise  take  their  symbol  from  the  light, 

Our  very  heaven  based  on  heaven's  blue. 

5 


Tilth  beyond  tilth,  he  waits  upon  the  sun, 

The  first  to  goad,  the  last  to  calm  his  breast, 
With  dawns  that  like  a  clarion  break  his  rest, 

And  after-glows  that  crown  his  labor  done. 

GEORGE  STEELING 


I  HAVE  CARED  FOR  YOU,  MOON 

I  HAVE  cared  for  ydu,  Moon, 
Cold  as  you  are, 
Frozen  on  the  sky 
With  your  dangling  star. 

It  is  not  your  shape, 
Nor  your  lure  of  light, 
Holding  the  sun 
On  your  breast  all  night: 

It  is  not  your  voice, 
I  have  never  heard 
Your  glittering  cry, 
Your  wandering  word. 

Yet  you  are  romance 
And  you  are  song. 
I  have  cared  for  you,  Moon, 
Long,  long, 


Since  I  first  paid  toll 
With  a  coin  of  dream 
On  the  road  you  silver. 
You  peer  and  gleam 

With  a  wistful  look 
On  your  haunted  face, 
As  though  Earth  were 
A  wonderful  place. 

GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING 


A  PRAYER  FOR  THE  OLD  COURAGE 

STILL  let  us  go  the  way  of  beauty;  go 

The  way  of  loveliness;  still  let  us  know 

Those  paths  that  lead  where  Pan  and  Daphne  run, 

Where  roses  prosper  in  the  summer  sun. 

The  earth  may  rock  with  War.  Still  is  there  peace 
In  many  a  place  to  give  the  heart  release 
From  this  too-vibrant  pain  that  drives  men  mad. 
Let  us  go  back  to  the  old  loves  we  had. 

Let  us  go  back,  to  keep  alive  the  gleam, 
To  cherish  the  immortal,  Godlike  dream; 
Not  as  poor  cravens  flying  from  the  fight, 
But  as  sad  children  seeking  the  clean  light. 
7 


Oh,  doubly  precious  now  is  solitude; 
Thrice  dear  Jron  quiet  star  above  the  wood, 
Since  panic  and  the  sundering  shock  of  War 
Have  laid  in  ruins  all  we  hungered  for. 

Brave  soldiers  of  the  spirit,  guard  ye  well 
Mountain  and  fort  and  massive  citadel; 
But  keep  ye  white  forever  —  keep  ye  whole 
The  battlements  of  dream  within  the  soul! 

CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 

WHO  WALKS  WITH  BEAUTY 

WHO  walks  with  Beauty  has  no  need  of  fear; 

The  sun  and  moon  and  stars  keep  pace  with  him, 
Invisible  hands  restore  the  ruined  year, 

And  time,  itself,  grows  beautifully  dim. 
One  hill  will  keep  the  footprints  of  the  moon, 

That  came  and  went  a  hushed  and  secret  hour; 
One  star  at  dusk  will  yield  the  lasting  boon: 

Remembered  Beauty's  white,  immortal  flower. 

Who  takes  of  Beauty  wine  and  daily  bread, 
Will  know  no  lack  when  bitter  years  are  lean; 

The  brimming  cup  is  by,  the  feast  is  spread,  — • 
The  sun  and  moon  and  stars  his  eyes  have  seen, 

Are  for  his  hunger  and  the  thirst  he  slakes : 

The  wine  of  Beauty  and  the  bread  he  breaks. 

DAVID  MORTON 
8 


A  BALLADE-CATALOGUE  OF  LOVELY  THINGS 

I  WOULD  make  a  list  against  the  evil  days 

Of  lovely  things  to  hold  in  memory: 
First  I  set  down  my  lady's  lovely  face, 

For  earth  has  no  such  lovely  thing  as  she; 

And  next  I  add,  to  bear  her  company, 
The  great-eyed  virgin  star  that  morning  brings; 

Then  the  wild-rose  upon  its  little  tree  — 
So  runs  my  catalogue  of  lovely  things. 

The  enchanted  dogwood,  with  its  ivory  trays, 

The  water-lily  in  its  sanctuary 
Of  reeded  pools,  and  dew-drenched  lilac  sprays,   ' 

For  these,  of  ail  fair  flowers,  the  fairest  be; 

Next  write  I  down  the  great  name  of  the  sea, 
Lonely  in  greatness  as  the  names  of  kings; 

Then  the  young  moon  that  hath  us  all  in  fee  — 
So  runs  my  catalogue  of  lovely  things. 

Imperial  sunsets  that  in  crimson  blaze 

Along  the  hills,  and,  fairer  still  to  me, 
The  fireflies  dancing  in  a  netted  maze 

Woven  of  twilight  and  tranquillity; 

Shakespeare  and  Virgil,  their  high  poesy; 
Then  a  great  ship,  splendid  with  snowy  wings, 

Voyaging  on  into  eternity  — 
So  runs  my  catalogue  of  lovely  things. 
9 


ENVOI 

Prince,  not  the  gold  bars  of  thy  treasury, 
Not  all  thy  jewelled  sceptres,  crowns  and  rings, 

Are  worth  the  honeycomb  of  the  wild  bee  — 
So  runs  my  catalogue  of  lovely  things. 

RICHARD  LE  GALUENNE 


POETRY 

I  AM  the  reality  of  things  that  seem; 

The  great  transmuter,  melting  loss  to  gain, 

Languor  to  love,  and  fining  joy  from  pain. 

I  am  the  waking,  who  am  called  the  dream; 

I  am  the  sun,  all  light  reflects  my  gleam; 

I  am  the  altar-fire  within  the  fane; 

I  am  the  force  of  the  refreshing  rain; 

I  am  the  sea  to  which  flows  every  stream. 

I  am  the  utmost  height  there  is  to  climb; 

I  am  the  truth,  mirrored  in  fancy's  glass; 

I  am  stability,  all  else  will  pass; 

I  am  eternity,  encircling  time; 

Kill  me,  none  may;  conquer  me,  nothing  can  — 

I  am  God's  soul,  fused  in  the  soul  of  man. 

ELLA  CROSBY  HEATH 


10 


THE  ELFIN  ARTIST 

IN  a  glade  of  an  elfin  forest 
When  Sussex  was  Eden-new, 

I  came  on  an  elvish  painter 
And  watched  as  his  picture  grew. 

A  harebell  nodded  beside  him.  j 
He  dipt  his  brush  in  the  dew. 

And  it  might  be  the  wild  thyme  round 
That  shone  in  that  dark  strange  ring; 

But  his  brushes  were  bees'  antennae, 
His  knife  was  a  wasp's  blue  sting; 

And  his  gorgeous  exquisite  palette 
Was  a  butterfly's  fan-shaped  whig. 

And  he  mingled  its  powdery  colours 
And  painted  the  lights  that  pass, 

On  a  delicate  cobweb  canvas 
That  gleamed  like  a  magic  glass, 

And  bloomed  like  a  banner  of  elf-land, 
Between  two  stalks  of  grass; 

Till  it  shone  like  an  angel's  feather 
With  sky-born  opal  and  rose, 

And  gold  from  the  foot  of  the  rainbow, 
And  colours  that  no  man  knows; 
11 


And  I  laughed  in  the  sweet  May  weather, 
Because  of  the  themes  he  chose. 

For  he  painted  the  things  that  matter, 

The  tints  that  we  all  pass  by, 
Like  the  little  blue  wreaths  of  incense 

That  the  wild  thyme  breathes  to  the  sky; 
Or  the  first  white  bud  of  the  hawthorn, 

And  the  light  in  a  blackbird's  eye; 

And  the  shadows  on  soft  white  cloud-peaks 

That  carolling  skylarks  throw, 
Dark  dots  on  the  slumbering  splendours 

That  under  the  wild  wings  flow, 
Wee  shadows  like  violets  trembling 

On  the  unseen  breasts  of  snow; 

With  petals  too  lovely  for  colour 

That  shake  to  the  rapturous  wings, 
And  grow  as  the  bird  draws  near  them, 

And  die  as  he  mounts  and  sings;  — 
Ah,  only  those  exquisite  brushes 

Could  paint  these  marvellous  things. 

ALFRED  NOTES 


12 


THE  MUSIC  OF  A  TREE 

ONCE,  walking  home,  I  passed  beneath  a  Tree, 
It  filled  the  air  like  dark  stone  statuary, 

It  was  so  quiet  and  still, 

Its  thick  green  leaves  a  hill 
Of  strange  and  faint  earth-branching  melody: 

Over  a  wall  it  hung  its  leaf-starred  wood. 
And  as  I  lonely  there  beneath  it  stood, 

In  that  sky-hollow  street 

Where  rang  no  human  feet, 
Sweet  music  flowed  and  filled  me  with  its  flood; 

And  all  my  weariness  then  fell  away, 
The  houses  were  more  lovely  than  by  day; 

The  Moon  and  that  old  Tree 

Sang  there;  and  secretly, 
With  throbbing  heart,  tip-toe  I  stole  away. 

W.  J.  TURNER 


A  TREE  AT  DUSK 

WITH  secrets  in  their  eyes  the  blue-winged  Hours 
Rustle  through  the  meadow 
Dropping  shadow. 

13 


Yawning  among  red  flowers, 
The  Moon  Child  with  her  golden  hoop 
And  a  pink  star  drifting  after, 
Leans  to  me  where  I  droop. 

I  hear  her  delicate,  soft  laughter, 

And  through  my  hair  her  tiny  fingers  creep. . . . 

I  shall  sleep. 

WINIFBED  WELLES 


LEAF-BURNING 

THE  flame  of  my  life  burns  low 

Under  the  cluttered  days 

Like  a  fire  of  leaves. 

But  always  a  little  blue,  sweet-smelling  smoke 

Goes  up  to  God. 

KABLE  WILSON  BAKER 


THE  PINES 

IN  lofty  galleries  of  greenery 
They  rise  and  meet  the  azure  of  the  sky, 
A  pillared  nave  whose  arches  frail  and  high 
Breathe  with  an  organ's  solemn  melody: 
Now  like  the  minor  surging  of  the  sea 
Or  low  and  faint  as  wings  that  startle  by  — 

14 


As  sweet-tuned  winds  that  quaveringly  sigh 
Adown  dim  aisles  of  cloistered  pageantry. 

While  through  the  stretches  of  this  lovely  fane 
The  swaying  censers  shed  a  drowsy  smell 

Heavy  with  some  rare  fragrance  from  afar, 
Upon  the  pavement  falls  the  sunset  stain, 
The  dusk  creeps  on ...  softly  a  twilight  bell . . . 
And  now,  the  altar-candle  of  a  star! 

THOMAS  S.  JONES,  JB. 


ASPIRATION 

ABOVE  the  crestward-climbing  pines, 
Above  the  dewy  slopes  of  lawn, 

Above  the  copse's  coil  of  vines, 
I  have  gone  up  to  meet  the  dawn. 

I  have  grown  weary  of  the  night 
That  from  day's  gold  mine  eye  debars,  • 

Of  seeing  up  the  purple  height 
Troop  the  processional  of  stars. 

I  yearn  to  mark  the  shattering  beam 
Backward  the  gates  of  darkness  throw; 

I  long  to  hear  across  my  dream 
The  wakening  trump  of  morning  blow. 
15 


Hark!  'tis  the  first  bird-note!  —  and  mark, 
Flushing  the  east,  a  crimson  ray!  — 

Soul,  from  the  girdling  wastes  of  dark 
Go  thou,  too,  up  to  meet  the  day! 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 

TRIUMPHALIS 

SOUL,  art  thou  sad  again, 
With  the  old  sadness? 
Thou  shalt  be  glad  again 
With  a  new  gladness, 
When  April  sun  and  rain 
Mount  to  the  teeming  brain 
With  the  earth-madness. 

When  from  the  mould  again, 
Spurning  disaster, 
Spring  shoots  unfold  again, 
Follow  thou  faster 
Out  of  the  drear  domain 
Of  dark,  defeat,  and  pain, 
Praising  the  Master. 

Light  for  thy  guide  again, 
Ample  and  splendid; 
Love  at  thy  side  again, 
All  doubting  ended. 
16 


(Ah,  by  the  dragon  slain, 
For  nothing  small  or  vain 
Michael  contended!) 

Thou  shalt  take  heart  again, 
No  more  despairing; 
Play  thy  great  part  again, 
Loving  and  caring. 
Hark,  how  the  gold  refrain 
Runs  through  the  iron  strain, 
Splendidly  daring! 

Thou  shalt  grow  strong  again, 
Confident,  tender,  — 
Battle  with  wrong  again, 
Be  truth's  defender,  — 
Of  the  immortal  train 
Born  to  attempt,  attain, 
Never  surrender! 

BLISS  CARMAN 


LAST  SONG  IN  AN  OPERA 

FROM  the  apple  bough  many  petals  fly  tossed  of  the  wind, 
Yefgoldenly  heavy  it  hangs  on  blue  autumn  eves 
(All  things  come  unto  him  whose  heart  believes). 
17 


The  dove,  though  the  tempest-swept  sun  her  bright  eyes  blind, 

Beats  onward  fast. 
Till  with  clapped,  sailing  wings  down  at  the  last 

To  the  loved  cote  she  come. 
Ah,  the  long  way  of  Love,  but  Love  comes  home  I 

The  silver  river  wanders  and  circles  time  out  of  mind, 

Yet  turns  at  length  where  the  sea  tosses  her  smoking  sheaves 

(All  things  come  unto  him  whose  heart  believes). 
So  golden-feathered  Love  beats  his  high  course,  though  blind, 

Until  that  hour 
When,  downward  stooping  through  the  flaming  shower, 

Into  the  heart  he  come. 
Ah,  the  long  way  of  Love,  but  Love  comes  home  I 

ROBERT  NICHOLS 


MY  APRIL 

THERE  is  a  day  of  April  in  my  heart, 

Flooded  with  fragrance  of  plowed  fields  and  rain, 
And  laughter  at  the  cross-roads  where  we  part, 

And  laughter  at  the  place  we  meet  again. 

The  magic  of  my  April  has  no  name; 

Not  Spring,  nor  all  the  glory  to  come  after,  — 
My  April  is  the  Joy  the  earth  became, 

Hearing  the  sweet  abandon  of  your  laughter. 
18 


The  memory  of  laughter  lingers  still, 
Like  some  bird's  singing  after  he  has  flown, 

Or  echoes  thrown  from  hill  to  answering  hill, 
That  never  die  or  leave  the  heart  alone. 

Death  cannot  still  the  echoes  Love  awakes, 
So  —  April  and  your  laughter  he  forsakes. 

B.  PRESTON  CLARK,  JR. 


WEN  SPREENG  EES  COM' 

OH!  'scusa,  lady,  'scusa,  pleass', 
For  dat  I  stop  an'  stare; 
I  no  can  halpa  do  like  dees 
Wen  Spreeng  ees  een  da  air. 

I  s'pose  you  know  how  moocha  joy 
Ees  feell  da  heart  of  leetla  boy, 
Wen  beeg  parade  ees  passa  by, 
Eef  he  can  climb  da  pole  so  high; 
Or  find  on  window-seell  a  seat 
Where  he  can  see  da  whola  street, 
An'  watch  da  soldiers  marcha  'way 
An'  hear  da  sweeta  music  play. 
Ah!  lady,  eef  dees  joy  you  know, 
You  would  no  frown  upon  me  so. 

19 


For,  like  da  boy  dat  climb  da  pole, 
From  deep  eensida  me  my  soul  — 
My  hongry,  starva  soul  —  ees  rise 
Onteell  eet  looka  from  my  eyes 
At  all  dat  com'  so  sweet  an'  fair 
Wen  now  da  Spreeng  ees  een  da  air; 
At  greena  grass,  at  buddin'  trees 
Dat  wave  deir  branches  een  da  breeze, 
At  leetla  birds  dat  hop  an'  seeng 
Baycause  dey  are  so  glad  for  Spreeng  — 
An'  you  dat  look  so  pure,  so  sweet, 
O!  lady,  you  are  part  of  eet! 

So,  'scusa,  lady,  'scusa,  pleass', 
For  dat  I  stop  an'  stare; 
I  no  can  halpa  do  like  dees 
Wen  Spreeng  ees  een  da  air. 

T.  A.  DALY 


A  SONG  OF  APRIL 

THE  censer  of  the  eglantine  was  moved 
By  little  lane  winds,  and  the  watching  faces 
Of  garden  flowerets,  which  of  old  she  loved 
Peep  shyly  outward  from  their  silent  places. 
But  when  the  sun  arose  the  flowers  grew  bolder, 
And  she  will  be  in  white,  I  thought,  and  she 
20 


Will  have  a  cuckoo  on  her  either  shoulder, 
And  woodbine  twines  and  fragrant  wings  of  pea. 

And  I  will  meet  her  on  the  hills  of  South, 
And  I  will  lead  her  to  a  northern  water, 
My  wild  one,  the  sweet  beautiful  uncouth, 
The  eldest  maiden  of  the  Winter's  daughter. 
And  down  the  rainbows  of  her  noon  shall  slide 
Lark  music,  and  the  little  sunbeam  people, 
And  nomad  wings  shall  fill  the  river  side, 
And  ground  winds  rocking  in  the  lily's  steeple. 

FRANCIS  LEDWIDGB 


A  BLACKBIRD  SUDDENLY 

HEAVEN  is  in  my  hand,  and  I 
Touch  a  heart-beat  of  the  sky, 
Hearing  a  blackbird's  cry. 

Strange,  beautiful,  unquiet  thing, 
Lone  flute  of  God,  how  can  you  sing 
Winter  to  spring? 

You  have  outdistanced  every  voice  and  word, 
And  given  my  spirit  wings  until  it  stirred 
Like  you  —  a  bird! 

JOSEPH  AUSLANDER 
21 


LATE  PLOWING 

•  ^ 
THIS  year  the  rains  have  made  the  plowing  late, 

And  now  the  edges  of  the  field  are  green, 
Birch  and  viburnum  crowding  close  against 
Low,  grey  stone  walls,  young  leaves  fresh  washed  and  clean. 

The  apple  trees  are  growing  faintly  pink, 

Like  some  new  morning  dawning  on  a  hill; 
The  sharp  plow,  leaving  billows  in  its  wake, 

Sails  over  that  dark  sea  whose  waves  are  still. 

Now  who  shall  dream  if  not  the  man  who  plows? 

So  very  near  the  secret  of  the  earth, 
He  deals  with  mystery  and  plans  in  faith 

The  miracles  of  death  and  of  rebirth. 

The  catbird  in  the  hedges  knows  a  song 

More  sweet  than  other  birds  the  plowman  hears. 

The  old,  old  earth,  new  turned,  with  a  fine  scent 
Exhales  the  promise  of  her  changeless  years. 

The  slim,  young  alders  lean  against  the  wall, 

All  decked  with  fringes  green  and  delicate; 
The  red-brown  earth  lies  ready  in  the  sun. 

This  year  the  rains  have  made  the  plowing  late. 

LOUISE  DRISCOLL 

22 


SOWING 

IT  was  a  perfect  day 

For  sowing;  just 

As  sweet  and  dry  was  the  ground 

As  tobacco-dust. 

I  tasted  deep  the  hour 
Between  the  far 
Owl's  chuckling  first  soft  cry 
And  the  first  star. 

A  long  stretched  hour  it  was; 
Nothing  undone 
Remained;  the  early  seeds 
All  safely  sown. 

And  now,  hark  at  the  rain, 
Windless  and  light, 
Half  a  kiss,  half  a  tear, 
Saying  good-night. 

EDWARD  THOMAS 


MONOTONE 

THE  monotone  of  the  rain  is  beautiful, 
And  the  sudden  rise  and  slow  relapse 
Of  the  long  multitudinous  rain. 
23 


The  sun  on  the  hills  is  beautiful, 
Or  a  captured  sunset,  sea-flung, 
Bannered  with  fire  and  gold. 

A  face  I  know  is  beautiful — 
With  fire  and  gold  of  sky  and  sea, 
And  the  peace  of  long  warm  rain. 

CARL  SANDBURG 


EASTER  SONG 

MY  soul 's  a  belfry  full  of  bells, 
With  warbling  birds  behind  its  bars! 
I  see  the  softly  mirrored  stars 

That  tremble  in  the  glassy  wells. 

My  soul 's  a  holy  place  enshrin'd, 
My  soul 's  a  bower  all  in  leaf! 
The  little  children  weaned  of  grief 

Go  wafting  songs  a-down  the  wind. 

My  soul  is  full  of  Archangels, 
And  full  of  star-y-pointing  flight! 
I  hear  the  flail  of  Fates  that  smite 

The  hoarded  grain  with  secret  spells. 
24 


My  soul  is  all  a-brim  with  bliss, 
My  soul  is  full  of  Gods  divine! 
O  Love,  come  bind  these  eyes  of  mine, 
And  lead  me  where  thy  pathway  is! 

STUART  MERRILL 
(Translated  by  Wilfred  Thorl&y) 

RESURRECTION 

Lo!  Mid  the  splendor  of  eternal  spaces 
Pierced  by  the  smile  of  God, 
I  looked  last  night  upon  celestial  faces, 
The  singing  ethers  trod. 

World  upon  world  in  rhythmic  measure  wheeling, 
Millions  of  blaming  suns  like  censers  swung, 
When  down  the  lanes  of  light  a  Voice  came  pealing, 
Upon  my  ear  its  clarion  message  flung: 
"To-day  is  Resurrection!  Look  not  hence 
To  some  far  distant  trumpet  call  to  sound 
That  hour  when,  as  the  spirit's  recompense, 
Man's  body  shall  be  summoned  from  the  ground. 
O  feeble  souls  bound  close  with  superstition, 
O  blind  and  halt  and  deaf  that  will  not  hear, 
There  is  no  other  miracle  fruition 
Than  thrills  the  Cosmos  now,  from  sphere  to  sphere. 

"Earth  at  this  hour  is  shaken  with  the  passion 
Of  resurrection  fire. 

25 


Stupendous  forces  move  and  mold  and  fashion 
Unto  God's  great  desire. 
The  only  death  is  death  in  man's  perception; 
The  only  grave  is  grave  of  blinded  eyes. 
Creation's  marvel  mocks  at  man's  deception  — 
It  is  man's  mind  that  from  its  tomb  must  rise. 

"  Waken  0  world,  if  you  would  glimpse  the  wonder 
Of  God's  great  Primal  Plan. 
Open  0  ears,  if  you  would  hear  the  thunder 
Hurled  from  the  heights  to  man. 
How  long  shall  Christ's  high  message  be  rejected? 
Two  thousand  years  have  passed  since  it  was  told. 
Must  One  again  be  born  and  resurrected 
Ere  man  shall  grasp  the  secret,  ages  old? 

"What,  then,  the  miracle  of  Easter  day? 
What  meant  the  riven  tomb,  the  hidden  Might 
That  conquered  death  and  rolled  the  stone  away 
And  brought  the  Master  back  to  mortal  sight? 
This!  That  throughout  the  worlds,  One  Life,  unbroken 
Rushes  and  flames  in  an  unending  vow. 
Death  cannot  be,  and  never  has  been  spoken  — 
God  and  immortal  life  are  here  and  now  I " 

ANGELA  MORGAN 


BEAUTY 

"You  bid  me  stay;  I  go 
Whither  no  man  may  go. 

I  am  the  rose's  soul, 
The  breast  of  the  oriole. 

I  am  the  rainbow's  arc, 

The  star  on  the  breast  of  the  dark. 

Sever  me,  I  am  still 
The  wonder  on  the  hill. 

Part  me,  and  I  am  yet 
The  heart  of  the  violet. 

With  the  first  flush  of  morn 
I  am  each  day  re-born. 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


GIFTS 

FOR  these  let  me  be  thankful  on  this  day; 
Warm  spreading  sun  and  flowers  that  brightly  bloom, 
The  breath  of  scented  springtime  in  my  room. 
The  open  sky  of  blue  above  my  way  ~ 

27 


Swift  winds  that  sweep  the  clouds  across  the  bay 
And  sounds  that  pulse  the  earth  with  sudden  song: 
Peepers,  and  whippoorwills  and  birds  whose  long 
Sweet  notes  spill  golden  harmonies  of  May; 
These  but  the  symbols  of  a  greater  thing  — 
The  warm  blood  in  my  veins,  the  eager  heart 
That  at  each  touch  of  Beauty  feels  the  start 
Of  fine  resurgence  —  quickened  as  the  spring. 
Yea,  above  all,  oh  let  me  greatly  prize 
The  Gift  of  Life,  supreme,  through  Beauty's  eyes! 

BLANCHE  SHOEMAKER  WAGSTAFF 

A  CHANT  OUT  OF  DOORS 

GOD  of  grave  nights, 
God  of  brave  mornings, 
God  of  silent  noon, 
Hear  my  salutation! 

For  where  the  rapids  rage  white  and  scornful, 
I  have  passed  safely,  filled  with  wonder; 
Where  the  sweet  pools  dream  under  willows, 
I  have  been  swimming,  filled  with  life. 

God  of  round  hills, 
God  of  green  valleys, 
God  of  clear  springs, 
Hear  my  salutation! 


For  where  the  moose  feeds,  I  have  eaten  berries, 
Where  the  moose  drinks,  I  have  drunk  deep. 
When  the  storm  crashed  through  broken  heavens  - 
And  under  clear  skies  —  I  have  known  joy. 

God  of  great  trees, 
God  of  wild  grasses, 
God  of  little  flowers, 
Hear  my  salutation! 

For  where  the  deer  crops  and  the  beaver  plunges, 
Near  the  river  I  have  pitched  my  tent; 
Where  the  pines  cast  aromatic  needles 
On  a  still  floor,  I  have  known  peace. 

God  of  grave  nights, 
God  of  brave  mornings, 
God  of  silent  noon, 
Hear  my  salutation! 

MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 


THE  NATURALIST  ON  A  JUNE  SUNDAY 

Mr  old  gardener  leans  on  his  hoe, 
Tells  me  the  way  that  green  things  grow; 
"Goin'  to  church?  Why  no. 
All  nature  'a  church  enough  for  me!" 
Says  he. 

29 


"  Preachin'  o'  flower  and  choir  o'  bird, 
An*  the  wind  passin'  the  plate  — 
Sweetest  service  that  ever  /  heard, 
That's  straight! 
Eternal  Rest? 
What  for,  friend? 
Gimme  a  swarm  o'  bees  to  tend, 
A  honey-makin',  world  without  end, 
That's  what  I'd  like  the  best! 
(Scoop  'em  right  up  an'  find  the  queen, 
They  'd  not  sting  me  —  the  bees  ain'  mean!) 

"Heaven's  all  right! 
But  still  I  guess  I  '11  kinder  miss 
The  Lady  Lunar  moth  at  night 
And  the  White  Wanderer  butterfly 
Crawlin'  out  of  its  chrysalis! 
I  want  my  heaven  human  too, 
'Twixt  me  an'  you  — 
Why  I'd  jus'  love  to  see 
A  chipmunk  hop  up  to  the  Lord 
An'  eat  right  out  o'  His  dread  Hand 
Same  as  it  does  to  me! 
Eternity  —  eternity  — 
Don't  it  sound  grand? 
But  say 

What 's  the  matter  -with  today? 
30 


Just  step  into  the  wood  an'  take  a  look! 

Ain't  that  a  page  o'  teachin'  from  the  Holy  Book? 

'He  that  hath  eyes  to  see 

An'  ears  to  hear'  — 

That 's  good  enough  for  me! 

I  guess  God 's  pretty  near, 

He  '11  understand,  I  know, 

Why  I  ain't  in  no  hurry  to  let  June  go!" 

My  old  gardener  turns  to  his  hoe, 
Helping  the  green  things  how  to  grow, 
"The  Misses  can  go  to  church  for  me! 
Amen!"  says  he. 

LEONORA  SPEYEB 

THE  MOCKING  FAIRY 

"WON'T  you  look  out  of  your  window,  Mrs.  Gill?" 
Quoth  the  Fairy,  nidding,  nodding  in  the  garden; 
"Can't  you  look  out  of  your  window,  Mrs.  Gill?" 
Quoth  the  Fairy,  laughing  softly  in  the  garden; 
But  the  air  was  still,  the  cherry  boughs  were  still, 
And  the  ivy-tod  'neath  the  empty  sill, 
And  never  from  her  window  looked  out  Mrs.  Gill 
On  the  Fairy  shrilly  mocking  in  the  garden. 

"What  have  they  done  with  you,  you  poor  Mrs.  Gill?" 
Quoth  the  Fairy,  brightly  glancing  in  the  garden; 
31 


"Where  have  they  hidden  you,  you  poor  old  Mrs.  Gill?" 
Quoth  the  Fairy  dancing  lightly  in  the  garden; 
But  night's  faint  veil  now  wrapped  the  hill, 
Stark  'neath  the  stars  stood  the  dead-still  Mill, 
And  out  of  her  cold  cottage  never  answered  Mrs.  Gill 
The  Fairy  mimbling  mambling  in  the  garden. 

WALTER  DE  LA  MABE 

NATURE'S  FRIEND 

SAY  what  you  like, 

All  things  love  me! 
I  pick  no  flowers  — 

That  wins  the  Bee. 

The  Summer's  Moths 

Think  my  hand  one 
To  touch  their  wings  — 

With  Wind  and  Sun. 

The  garden  Mouse 

Comes  near  to  play; 
Indeed,  he  turns 

His  eyes  away. 

The  Wren  knows  well 

I  rob  no  nest; 
When  I  look  in, 

She  still  will  rest. 
32 


The  hedge  stops  Cows, 

Or  they  would  come 
After  my  voice 

Bight  to  my  home. 

The  Horse  can  teU, 

Straight  from  my  lip, 
My  hand  could  not 

Hold  any  whip. 

Say  what  you  like, 

All  things  love  me! 
Horse,  Cow,  and  Mouse, 

Bird,  Moth  and  Bee. 

WILLIAM  H.  DA  VIES 


MOONFLOWERS 

THESE  frail,  white  blooms  have  lit  the  summer  night 
Like  ghosts  of  beauty  that  had  gone  too  soon,  — 
With  something  less  than  any  glimmering  light 

That  sways  and  faults  and  trembles  in  the  moon. 
I  think  the  Earth  grows  half-regretful,  now, 

Of  faces  that  were  lovely  of  old  time, 
Lifts  here  again  dim  hands  and  hair  and  brow, 

In  loveliness  more  fragile  than  a  rhyme. 
33 


So  that  the  listening  night  has  somehow  learned 
A  way  of  prescient  waiting  through  the  dark, 
For  half -forgotten  loveliness  returned,  — 

Too  frail  and  dim  for  eyes  like  ours  to  mark 
More  than  a  ghostly  glimmer  on  the  air, 
That  once  was  lighted  brow  and  hands  and  hair. 

DAVID  MORTON 

HERMIT  THRUSH 

HARK,  from  the  wood's  melodious  flute 
That  first  clear  liquid  note, 
Long  sustained 
Of  summer! 

You  mean  so  much  to  me,  shy  hermit 
Of  the  woods, 
O  messenger  of  joy! 
From  out  your  speckled  throat 
All  music  surely  has  its  birth 
In  that  clear,  crystal  note 
Which  bursts  upon  the  ear, 
Clearly  calling,  "Joy!  —  I'm  here!" 
Your  first,  full,  rapturous  note 
Is  like  the  colour  in  the  crystal 
When  first  the  sun  it  catches, 
With  sparkling  notes  that  follow 
Dancing,  in  prismic  flashes. 
34 


First  herald  of  the  morning 
In  that  long,  liquid  note  of  joy, 
Buoyant,  sportive,  pealing, 
The  last  to  sing  the  closing  note  at  vespers, 
Plaintive,  sweet,  and  full  of  depth 
And  feeling. 

You  fling  your  song  out  as  a  call, 
You  sing  that  in  this  life  there  Js  passion, 
Pain  and  suffering  — 
But  over  all  is  joy! 
Joy! 

Joy! 
There  's  joy  enough  for  afl! 

MARIE  TUDOR 


A   SUMMER   DAY 
WHAT  a  day  of  rapturous  beauty! 
With  maddening  sunlight  all  the  land  7s  aglow  — 
The  glad  sea-spray  in  joyous  clamor  breaks 
Upon  the  cold  and  unresponsive  rock, 
Then  upward  leaps  toward  heaven's  lustrous  blue 
In  ecstasy  of  tumult  and  delight! 
The  call  of  summer  is  in  air  and  earth, 
All  Nature  throbs  with  passion  and  with  power  — 
The  Soul  of  Man's  enraptured  with  the  hour! 

SARAH  METCALF  PHIPPS 
35 


ALOHA 

I  KNOW  a  little  island 

Set  in  the  summer  sea, 
Wave-washed  and  green  and  mossy 

As  green  can  be. 

Great  joys  are  in  the  offing; 

And  always  day  and  night, 
Putting  into  the  harbor, 

Is  some  delight. 

Around  it  sail  great  sorrows; 

So  far  it  is  from  care 
That  only  fleets  of  laughter 

May  anchor  there. 

And  only  strong  fair  faces 

Pass  always  to  and  fro; 
As  in  a  place  enchanted 

They  come  and  go. 

Once  came  a  green  sea-serpent, 

The  island  people  say, 
And  in  their  warmth  of  welcome 

Basked  for  a  day: 
36 


Basked  —  and  with  venom  sweetened, 

Fled  from  that  holy  ground, 
Dyeing  the  seas  with  envy 

For  miles  around: 

With  envy  of  the  people 

Who  worship  lovely  things, 
Such  as  in  eld  were  worshiped 

By  queens  and  kings. 

Stay,  lovely  little  island, 

Still  in  the  summer  sea, 
Wave-washed  and  green  and  mossy 

As  green  can  be! 

WILLIAM  GRIFFITH 


THE  BEST  FRIEND 

Now  shall  I  walk 

Or  shall  I  ride? 
"Ride,"  Pleasure  said; 

"Walk,"  Joy  replied. 

Now  what  shall  I  — 

Stay  home  or  roam? 
"Roam,"  Pleasure  said; 

And  Joy  —  "Stay  home." 
37 


Now  shall  I  danee, 

Or  sit  for  dreams? 
"Sit,"  answers  Joy; 

"Dance,"  Pleasure  screams. 

Which  of  ye  two 

Will  kindest  be? 
Pleasure  laughed  sweet, 

But  Joy  kissed  me! 

WILLIAM  H.  DAVIES 


THE  FALCONER  OF  GOD 

1  FLUNG  my  soul  to  the  air  like  a  falcon  flying. 
I  said,  "Wait  on,  wait  on,  while  I  ride  belowl 

I  shall  start  a  heron  soon 

In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon  — 
A  strange  white  heron  rising  with  silver  on  its  wings, 
Rising  and  cry'ng 

Wordless,  wonduus  things; 
The  secret  of  the  stars,  of  the  world's  heart-strings 

The  answer  to  their  woe. 
Then  stoop  thou  upon  him,  and  grip  and  hold  him  so!" 

My  wild  soul  waited  on  as  falcons  hover. 
I  beat  the  reedy  fens  as  I  trampled  past. 
38 


I  heard  the  mournful  loon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon. 
And  then  —  with  feathery  thunder  —  the  bird  of  my  desire 

Broke  from  the  cover 
Flashing  silver  fire. 
High  up  among  the  stars  I  saw  his  pinions  spire. 

The  pale  clouds  gazed  aghast 
As  my  falcon  stoopt  upon  him,  and  gript  and  held  him  fast. 

My  soul  dropt  through  the  air  —  with  heavenly  plunder?  — 
Gripping  the  dazzling  bird  my  dreaming  knew? 

Nay!  but  a  piteous  freight, 

A  dark  and  heavy  weight 

Despoiled  of  silver  plumage,  its  voice  forever  stilled,  — 
All  of  the  wonder 

Gone  that  ever  filled 
Its  guise  with  glory.  Oh,  bird  that  I  have  killed, 

How  brilliantly  you  flew 
Across  my  rapturous  vision  when  first  I  dreamed  of  you! 

Yet  I  fling  my  soul  on  high  with  new  endeavor, 
And  I  ride  the  world  below  with  a  joyful  mind. 
/  shall  start  a  heron  soon 
In  the  marsh  beneath  the  moon  — 
A  wondrous  silver  heron  its  inner  darkness  fledges  I 

I  beat  forever 
The  fens  and  the  sedges. 
39 


The  pledge  is  still  the  same  —  for  all  disastrous  pledges, 

All  hopes  resigned! 
My  soul  still  flies  above  me  for  the  quarry  it  shall  find. 

WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 


LINES  FROM   "THE  ROAMER" 

LOVE  is  the  bread  that  feeds  the  multitudes; 

Love  is  the  healing  of  the  hospitals; 

Love  is  the  light  that  breaks  through  prison  doors; 

Love  knows  not  rich  nor  poor,  nor  good  nor  bad, 

But  only  the  beloved,  in  every  heart 

One  and  the  same,  the  incorruptible 

Spirit  divine,  whose  tabernacle  is  life. 

Love,  more  than  hunger,  feeds  the  soul's  desire; 

Love  more  the  spirit  than  the  body  heals; 

Love  is  a  star  unto  the  darkened  mind; 

And  they  who  truly  are  Love's  servants  leal, 

And  follow  him,  undoubting,  to  the  end, 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  human  righteousness, 

Past  Justice  and  past  Mercy,  find  at  last, 

Past  Charity,  past  Pardon,  Love  enthroned, 

Lord  of  all  hearts,  incarnate  in  man's  soul. 

GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY 


40 


COMPLETION 

MY  heart  has  fed  today. 

My  heart,  like  hind  at  play, 

Has  grazed  in  fields  of  love,  and  washed  in  streams 

Of  quick,  imperishable  dreams. 

In  moth-white  beauty  shimmering, 
Lovely  as  birches  in  the  moon  glimmering, 
From  coigns  of  sleep  my  eyes 
Saw  dawn  and  love  arise. 

And  like  a  bird  at  rest, 
Steady  in  a  swinging  nest, 
My  heart  at  peace  lay  gloriously 
While  wings  of  ecstasy 
Beat  round  me  and  above. 

I  am  fulfilled  of  love. 

EUNICE  TIETJENS 


TO  ONE  I  LOVE 

To  one  I  love 

I  have  been  all  things  beautiful. 
I  am  the  stars,  the  light,  the  breath, 
The  music  of  the  world  set  forth  for  him; 
41 


And  I  am  witchery,  and  even  woe, 

Woe  of  a  quality  akin  to  joy! 

The  thought  of  me  is  subtly  intertwined 

With  twilight  and  the  wheeling  swallows  cry, 

With  doorways  dimly  lit;  and  darkening  fields; 

The  long  road's  ending,  and  the  lantern's  gleam; 

With  huddled  roofs  adream  beneath  the  moon. 

For  I  am  that  by  which  he  is  reborn. 

The  dearness  of  the  heart  by  candle-light; 

The  mystery  wherein  two  spirits  blend; 

I  have  the  strange  remoteness  of  the  heavens 

And  yet  the  patient  nearness  of  the  grass. 

AMORY  HARE 

MORNING  SONG 

THERE'S  a  mellower  light  just  over  the  hill, 

And  somewhere  a  yellower  daffodil, 

And  honey,  somewhere,  that's  sweeter  still. 

And  some  were  meant  to  stay  like  a  stone, 
Knowing  the  things  they  have  always  known, 
Sinking  down  deeper  into  their  own. 

But  some  must  follow  the  wind  and  me, 
Who  like  to  be  starting  and  like  to  be  free, 
Never  so  glad  as  we're  going  to  be! 

KARLE  WILSON  BAKER 

42 


THE  VALLEY'S  SINGING  DAY 

THE  sound  of  the  closing  door  was  all. 
You  made  no  sound  in  the  grass  with  your  footfall, 
As  far  as  you  went  from  the  door,  which  was  not  far; 
But  had  awakened  under  the  morning  star 
The  first  song  bird  that  awakened  all  the  rest. 
He  could  have  slept  but  a  moment  more  at  best: 
Already  determined  dawn  began  to  lay 
In  place  across  a  cloud  the  slender  ray 
For  prying  beneath  and  forcing  the  lids  of  sight, 
And  loosing  the  pent-up  music  of  over  night. 
But  dawn  was  not  to  begin  their  "pearly-pearly" 
(By  which  they  mean  the  rain  is  pearls  so  early 
Before  it  changes  to  diamonds  in  the  sun), 
Neither  was  song  that  day  to  be  self-begun. 
You  had  begun  it,  and  if  there  needed  proof  — 
I  was  asleep  still  under  the  dripping  roof, 
My  window  curtain  hung  over  the  sill  to  wet; 
But  I  should  awake  to  confirm  your  story  yet; 
I  should  be  willing  to  say  and  help  you  to  say 
That  once  you  had  opened  the  valley's  singing  day. 

ROBERT  FROST 


43 


AFTER  TWO  YEARS 

SHE  is  all  so  slight 
And  tender  and  white 

As  a  May  morning. 
She  walks  without  hood 
At  dusk.  It  is  good 

To  hear  her  sing. 

It  is  God's  will 

That  I  shall  love  her  still 

As  He  loves  Mary. 
And  night  and  day 
I  will  go  forth  to  pray 

That  she  love  me. 

She  is  as  gold 

Lovely,  and  far  more  cold. 

Do  thou  pray  with  me, 
For  if  I  win  grace 
To  kiss  twice  her  face 

God  has  done  well  to  me. 

RICHARD  ALDINGTON 


44 


CLICK  O'  THE  LATCH 

THE  silence  holds  for  it,  taut  and  true, 
The  young  moon  stays  for  it,  wistful  white; 
Winds  that  whimpered  the  sunset  through 
Sigh  for  it,  low  and  light,  — 

Click  o'  the  latch  and  he'll  come  home  — 
A  stir  in  the  dusk  at  the  little  gate. 
Hush,  my  heart,  —  be  still,  my  heart  — 
Surely  it's  sweet  to  wait! 

The  tall  skies  lean  for  it,  listening  — 
Never  a  star  but  lends  an  ear  — 
The  passionate  porch-flowers  stoop  and  cling  — 
Stilling  their  leaves  to  hear 

Click  o'  the  latch  and  him  come  home,  — 
A  step  on  the  flags,  a  snatch  of  song, 
Hurry  my  heart,  be  swift,  my  heart,  — 
How  did  we  wait  so  long! 

NANCY  BYRD  TURNER 


LOVE'S  ISLAND 

(FROM  THE  JAPANESE  OF  DOKU-HO) 
AN  island  in  an  inland  sea; 

"Too  small  for  me!"  I  sadly  cried. 
And  then  espied 
45 


A  lark  that  rose  into  the  sky. 
Whereat  I  changed  my  plaintive  cry: 

"If  lark  there  be 

Then  field  there  is. 

If  field  there  be 

Then  man  there  is. 

If  man  there  be 

Then  Love  there  is. 
Then  large  enough,  indeed,  for  me 
Thou  little  island  in  the  sea!" 

IAN  OLIVER 

EVEN-SONG 

THE  night  and  the  day  have  met  on  the  road, 

Travelers  faring  afar; 
Have  met  and  kissed  and  gone  on  their  way  — 

Their  kiss  is  the  evening  star. 

The  night  and  the  day  have  met  on  the  road, 

Wayfarers  passing  by; 
The  day  has  blushed  at  the  glance  of  the  night,  — 

Her  blush  is  the  evening  sky. 

The  night  ancl  the  day  have  met  on  the  road, 

Longing  to  linger  there; 
Have  looked  and  sighed  and  said  farewell,  — 

Their  sigh  is  the  evening  air. 

46 


The  night  and  the  day  have  met  on  the  road, 

Tremulous,  0  my  Sweet; 
And  all  the  twilight  is  faint  with  the  prayer 

That  thou  and  I  should  meet! 

BENJAMIN  R.  C.  Low 

DUSK  AT  SEA 

TONIGHT  eternity  alone  is  near: 

The  sea,  the  sunset,  and  the  darkening  blue; 
Within  their  shelter  is  no  space  for  fear, 

Only  the  wonder  that  such  things  are  true. 

The  thought  of  you  is  like  the  dusk  at  sea  — 

Space  and  wide  freedom  and  old  shores  left  far, 
The  shelter  of  a  lone  immensity 
Sealed  by  the  sunset  and  the  evening  star. 

THOMAS  S.  JONES,  JB. 
•  % 

A  SPRIG  OF  ROSEMARY 

I  CANNOT  see  your  face. 
When  I  think  of  you, 
It  is  your  hands  which  I  see. 
Your  hands 
Sewing, 

Holding  a  book, 
47 


Resting  for  a  moment  on  the  sill  of  a  window. 
My  eyes  keep  always  the  sight  of  your  hands, 
But  my  heart  holds  the  sound  of  your  voice, 
And  the  soft  brightness  which  is  your  soul. 

AMY  LOWELL 

HER  WAY 

You  loved  the  hay  in  the  meadow, 

Flowers  at  noon, 
The  high  cloud's  long  shadow, 

Honey  of  June, 
The  flaming  woodways  tangled 

With  Fall  on  the  hill, 
The  towering  night  star-spangled 

And  winter-still. 

And  you  loved  firelit  faces, 

The  hearth,  the  home,  — 
Your  mind  on  golden  traces, 

London  or  Rome,  — 
On  quaintly-colored  spaces 

Where  heavens  glow 
With  his  quaint  saints*  embraces,  — 

Angelico. 

In  cloister  and  highway 
(Gold  of  God's  dust!) 

48 


And  many  an  elfin  byway 

You  put  your  trust,  — 
A  crock  and  a  table, 

Love's  end  of  day, 
And  light  of  a  storied  stable 

Where  kings  must  pray. 

Somewhere  there  is  a  village 

For  you  and  me, 
Hayfield,  hearth  and  tillage,  — 
•    Where  can  it  be? 
Prayers  when  birds  awake, 

Daily  bread, 
Toil  for  His  sunlit  sake 

Who  raised  us  dead. 

With  this  in  mind  you  moved 

Through  love  and  pain. 
Hard  though  the  long  road  proved, 

You  turned  again 
With  a  heart  that  knew  its  trust 

Not  ill-bestowed. 
With  this  you  light  the  dust 

That  clouds  my  road. 

WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 


THE  GIFT  OF  GOD 

BLESSED  with  a  joy  that  only  she 

Of  all  alive  shall  ever  know, 

She  wears  a  proud  humility 

For  what  it  was  that  willed  it  so,  — 

That  her  degree  should  be  so  great 

Among  the  favored  of  the  Lord 

That  she  may  scarcely  bear  the  weight 

Of  her  bewildering  reward. 

As  one  apart,  immune,  alone, 
Or  featured  for  the  shining  ones, 
And  like  to  none  that  she  has  known 
Of  other  women's  other  sons,  — 
The  firm  fruition  of  her  need, 
He  shines  anointed;  and  he  blurs 
Her  vision,  till  it  seems  indeed 
A  sacrilege  to  call  him  hers. 

She  fears  a  little  for  so  much 
Of  what  is  best,  and  hardly  dares 
To  think  of  him  as  one  to  touch 
With  aches,  indignities,  and  cares; 
She  sees  him  rather  at  the  goal, 
Still  shining;  and  her  dream  foretells 
The  proper  shining  of  a  soul 
Where  nothing  ordinary  dwells. 

50 


Perchance  a  canvass  of  the  town 
Would  find  him  far  from  flags  and  shouts, 
And  leave  him  only  the  renown 
Of  many  smiles  and  many  doubts; 
Perchance  the  crude  and  common  tongue 
Would  havoc  strangely  with  his  worth; 
But  she,  with  innocence  unwrung, 
Would  read  his  name  around  the  earth. 

And  others,  knowing  how  this  youth 
Would  shine,  if  love  could  make  him  great, 
When  caught  and  tortured  for  the  truth 
Would  only  writhe  and  hesitate; 
While  she,  arranging  for  his  days 
What  centuries  could  not  fulfill, 
Transmutes  him  with  her  faith  and  praise, 
And  has  him  shining  where  she  will. 

She  crowns  him  with  her  gratefulness, 

And  says  again  that  life  is  good; 

And  should  the  gift  of  God  be  less 

In  him  than  in  her  motherhood, 

His  fame,  though  vague,  will  not  be  small, 

As  upward  through  her  dream  he  fares, 

Half  clouded  with  a  crimson  fall 

Of  roses  thrown  on  marble  stairs. 

EDWIN  ARLINGTON  ROBINSON 

51 


MOTHER-PRAYER 

"LORD,  make  my  loving  a  guard  for  them 

Day  and  night, 
Let  never  pathway  be  hard  for  them; 

Keep  all  bright! 
Let  not  harsh  touch  of  a  thorn  for  them 

Wound  their  ease  — 
All  of  the  pain  I  have  borne  for  them 

Spare  to  these!" 

So  I  would  pray  for  them, 
Kneeling  to  God 
Night  and  day  for  them. 

"Lord,  let  the  pain  life  must  bring  to  them 

Make  them  strong, 
Keep  their  hearts  white  though  grief  cling  to  them 

All  life  long, 
Let  all  the  joys  Thou  dost  keep  from  them 

At  Thy  will 
Give  to  them  power  to  reap  from  them 

Courage  still!" 

So  I  must  ask  for  them. 

Leaving  to  God 

His  own  task  for  them. 

MARGARET  WIDDEMER 

52 


"I  SING  NO  MORE" 

I  SING  no  more  the  brook-song,  the  tree-song? 

I  sing  no  more  the  tune  of  the  windy  hills? 

I  have  forgotten,  perhaps,  the  storm-song,  the  sea-song? 

How  a  red  dawn  dazzles,  and  how  a  blue  noon  thrills? 

—  Ah,  but  my  songs!  A  little  gay  echo  sings  them. 

A  little  gay  face  comes  laughing,  stealing  my  flush  of  flame. 
I  have  forgotten  no  tunes,  but  the  thrush  or  the  thunder  brings 

them 
Perfect  and  undismayed,  for  the  little  gay  lips  to  tame. 

I  go  no  more  a-dancing  and  a-glittering? 

I  go  no  more  in  queer  bright  garments  clad? 

I  have  forgotten,  perhaps,  the  dreams  that  the  moon  sets  flittering, 

Silver  and  gold  and  pearl-plumed;  delicate,  moody,  sad?    - 

—  Ah,  but  my  dance!  —  A  little  gay  shadow  treads  it, 

Green  and  azure  and  copper,  a  little  shape  leaps,  bright-haired. 
I  have  forgotten  no  dream,  but  the  star  or  the  sunrise  sheds  it, 
Utterly  young  and  fearless,  with,  tremulous  hot  heart  bared. 

Why  should  I  sing?  And  why  should  I  dream  and  desire? 
Not  one  night  will  wait  for  my  dream;  not  one  day  for  my  song. 
I  am  the  speechless  wood  that  laughs  in  the  keen  young  fire. 
0  little  wayward  fire!  Burn  gloriously!  Burn  long! 

FANNIE  STEARNS  DAVIS 
53 


QUANTITY  AND  QUALITY 

THE  poor  have  childher  and  to  spare, 
But  with  the  quality  they're  rare, 
Where  money's  scarce  the  childher 's  many, 
Where  money's  thick  you'll  scarce  find  any, 
Some  wanted  here,  too  many  there  — 
It's  quare. 

Now,  if  the  rich  and  poor  could  share* 
There 'd  soon  be  childher  everywhere; 
But  God  have  pity  on  the  mother 
That  gives  her  child  up  to  another; 
An'  so  you'll  find  a  mansion  bare, 
A  cabin  rich  in  all  that's  fair  — 
It's  quare. 

W.  M.  LETTS 


THE  CHILDHER 

(AN  IRISH  MOTHER  SPEAKS) 

AH,  sure,  without  the  childher,  now,  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do  at 

all, 

'T  would  be  the  same  old  story,  every  day,  an'  nothing  new  at  all! 
'T  is  thrue,  they  are  a  throuble,  an'  I'm  often  almost  wild  with 

them  — 
But  what  about  the  times  when  I  am  just  another  child  with  them? 

54 


When  all  their  fun  an'  frolic  makes  the  very  rafters  ring  again, 
An'  I,  with  all  my  years,  am  led  to  join  them  when  they  sing 


When  Patsy  (that's  the  eldest)  —  he  that  has  the  roguish  glance 

with  him  — 
He  fairly  dhrags  me  in  to  show  the  girls  how  I  can  dance  with 

him? 
When  Mary  (that's  my  second)  plays  the  tunes  of  other  days  to 

me  — 
An'  she  not  knowing  half  the  things,  poor  child,  the  music  says 

to  me?  — 

When  I  can  see  around  me  every  youthful  face  love-lit  for  me, 
An'  feel  that  all  their  merriment's  intended,  every  bit  for  me?  — 
Ah,  then,  in  spite  of  all  the  work,  the  worry  and  bewildherment, 
I'm  thanking  God  He  gave  me  this:  to  know  what  little  childher 

meant! 

Ah,  sure  without  the  childher  't  is  myself  might  take  it  aisier; 
But  would  I  be  much  better  off  because  I  might  be  lazier? 
My  hand  it  might  be  whiter,  an'  I  'd  have  more  rings  to  wear  on  it, 
But  would  my  heart  be  lighter  if  I  had  no  mother-care  on  it? 
An'  tell  me  how  I'd  spend  the  day  —  I'm  thinkin'  't  would  be 

weary,  now, 

If  I  could  not  be  lookin'  out  for  Patsy  an'  for  Mary,  now, 
Or  some  one  or  another  of  the  little  lives  so  dear  to  me, 
An'  thinkin'  are  they  safe  an'  sound?  an'  wishin'  they  were  near 

tome; 

55 


An'  kissin'  them  when  they  came  in,  an'  layin'  lovin'  hold  on 

them, 
An'  askin'  if  they're  wet,  for  fear  they'd  maybe  have  a  cold  on 

them. 

An'  smilin'  to  see  Michael  draw  each  lovin'  little  one  to  him, 
An'  laughin'  when  the  youngest  one,  the  toddler,  tries  to  run  to 

him. 
'T  is  thrue,  the  world  is  filled  with  care,  we  suffer  every  day 

from  it, 
But,  ah,  the  little  childher,  sure,  they  lure  our  hearts  away 

from  it! 

The  house  that  has  the  childher  is  the  house  that  has  the  joy  in  it; 
To  me  't  is  only  home  that  has  a  girleen  or  a  boy  in  it; 
An'  every  one  that's  added  only  makes  the  place  the  cheerier; 
If  childher  are  the  gifts  of  God,  the  more  He  sends  the  merrier. 
Sure,  every  little  one  I've  had  gave  something  to  my  bliss  the 

more, 

An'  every  little  baby  face  my  lips  were  drawn  to  kiss  the  more, 
An'  though  I  know  the  throuble  an'  the  thrial  an'  the  care  they 

are, 
An'  though  I  know  how  often  wild,  how  wayward  an'  how  quare 

they  are, 
An'  though  't  is  many  a  night  I've  watched  beside  the  little  beds 

of  them, 
An'  held  their  little  hands  an'  cooled  the  fevered  little  heads  of 

them; 

56 


An*  though  I  know  the  surly  moods  that  fall  upon  the  best  of 

them  — 

Can  one  who  is  unkind  outweigh  the  love  of  all  the  rest  of  them? 
No,  no,  the  throuble  that  I've  had,  through  them  I'll  never  rue 

at  all, 
An'  sure,  without  the  childher,  now,  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do 

at  all! 

DENIS  A.  MCCARTHY 


NIGHT  MAGIC 
(A  LIB-AWAKE  SONG) 

THE  apples  falling  from  the  tree 

Make  such  a  heavy  bump  at  night 
I  always  am  surprised  to  see 
They  are  so  little,  when  it-'s  light; 

And  all  the  dark  just  sings  and  sings 

So  loud,  I  cannot  see  at  all 
How  frogs  and  crickets  and  such  things 
That  make  the  noise,  can  be  so  small. 

Then  my  own  room  looks  larger,  too  — 

Corners  so  dark  and  far  away  — 
I  wonder  if  things  really  do 
Grow  up  at  night  and  shrink  by  day? 
57 


For  I  dream  sometimes,  just  as  clear, 

I'm  bigger  than  the  biggest  men  — 
Then  mother  says,  "Wake  up,  my  dear!" 
And  I'm  a  little  boy  again. 

AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 


THE  LOCOMOTIVE  TO  THE  LITTLE  BOY 

BOY,  whose  little,  confiding  hand 
Your  father  holds,  why  do  you  stand 
Staring  in  wonderment  at  me,  — 
Poor  thing  of  iron  that  I  be? 

Your  unsophisticated  eyes 
Are  full  of  beautiful  surprise; 
And  oh,  how  wonderful  you  are, 
You  little,  golden  morning-star! 

Poor  thing  of  iron  that  I  be, 

A  mortal  man  imagined  me; 

But  you  —  you  drop  of  morning  dew  — 

God  and  His  heaven  are  globed  in  you. 

BENJAMIN  R.  C.  Low 


58 


THE  COBBLER  IN  WILLOW  STREET 

UNLESS  you  knew  just  where  to  look 
You  could  n't  find  it  out  of  a  book,  — 
Willow  Street .  . .  close-walled,  and  still, 
Short  and  shadowed  in  every  nook 
And  hour  as  day  goes  up  the  hill. 

The  dark  shapes  slant  to  west  at  nine 
And  creep  at  one  up  to  a  line 
Measuring  eastern  walls  again, 
And  close  the  gloried  morning  vine 
That  they  have  touched  enough  to  stain. 

The  cobbler's  house  is  half  the  height 
The  pigeons  measure  in  a  flight  ; 
From  bottom  of  the  hill  to  top  .  .  . 
And  where  his  one  doorstep  is  white 
The  cobbler  sings  and  keeps  his  shop. 

Mornings,  he  makes  a  bluebird  tune 
For  dreams  and  things  that  go  too  soon, 
And  in  a  song  he 's  half  forgot 
Of  Willow  Street,  in  afternoon, 
He  sings  of  people  who  are  not . . . 

Of  people  who  no  longer  care 
About  the  houses  in  the  square 
59 


Above  the  street  and  at  its  end, 

Or  do  not  see  the  willow  bare 

When  rain  drips  from  the  boughs  and  bend. 

He  hums  his  quiet  song  about 

The  houses  with  their  shutters  out 

Or  folded  in  ...  of  men  who  talked 

Of  plans  and  faith  and  hope  and  doubt, 

And  those  that  whispered  while  they  walked  . . . 

Where  houses  kneel  around  the  church 
The  pigeons  flutter  from  their  perch 
Down  to  the  narrow  spotless  street 
To  strut  and  stand  and  flash  and  lurch, 
Crowding  about  the  cobbler's  feet. 

Some  day  the  cobbler's  sound  will  beat  — 
When  evening  threnody  is  sweet 
With  old  bells  shaking  sprays  of  chimes  — 
A  song  of  us  and  Willow  Street, 

Tapping  a  heel  all  out  of  time 

GEOKGE  O'NEIL 

HOLD  FAST  YOUR  DREAMS 

HOLD  fast  your  dreams! 
Within  your  heart 
Keep  one,  still,  secret  spot 
Where  dreams  may  go, 
60 


And  sheltered  so, 

May  thrive  and  grow  — 

Where  doubt  and  fear  are  not. 

O,  keep  a  place  apart, 

Within  your  heart, 

For  little  dreams  to  go! 

Think  still  of  lovely  things  that  are  not  true. 

Let  wish  and  magic  work  at  will  in  you. 

Be  sometimes  blind  to  sorrow.  Make  believe! 

Forget  the  calm  that  lies 

In  disillusioned  eyes. 

Though  we  all  know  that  we  must  die, 

Yet  you  and  I 

May  walk  like  gods  and  be 

Even  now  at  home  in  immortality! 

We  see  so  many  ugly  things  — 

Deceits  and  wrongs  and  quarrelings; 

We  know,  alas!  we  know 

How  quickly  fade 

The  color  in  the  west, 

The  bloom  upon  the  flower, 

The  bloom  upon  the  breast 

And  youth's  blind  hour. 

Yet,  keep  within  your  heart 

A  place  apart 

61 


Where  little  dreams  may  go, 

May  thrive  and  grow. 

Hold  fast  —  hold  fast  your  dreams! 

LOUISE  DBISCOLL 

THE  LONESOME  WAVE 

THERE  is  an  island 

In  the  middle  of  my  heart, 

And  all  day  comes  lapping  on  the  shore 

A  long  silver  wave. 

It  is  the  lonesome  wave; 

I  cannot  see  the  other  side  of  it. 

It  will  never  go  away 

Until  it  meets  the  glad  gold  wave 

Of  happiness! 

Wandering  over  the  monstrous  rocks, 

Looking  into  the  caves, 

I  see  my  island  dark,  all  cold, 

Until  the  gold  wave  sweeps  in 

From  a  sea  deep  blue, 

And  flings  itself  on  the  beach. 

Oh,  it  is  joy,  then! 

No  more  whispers  like  sorrow, 

No  more  silvery  lonesome  lapping  of  the  long  wave. 

HILDA  CONKLING 
(Seven  years  old} 


ROMANY  GOLD 

THERE'S  a  crackle  of  brown  on  the  leaf's  crisp  edge 
And  the  goldenrod  blooms  have  begun  to  feather. 
We're  two  jolly  vagabonds  under  a  hedge 
By  the  dusty  road  together. 

Could  an  emperor  boast  such  a  house  as  ours, 
The  sky  for  a  roof  and  for  couch  the  clover? 
Does  he  sleep  as  well  under  silken  flowers 
As  we,  when  the  day  is  over? 

He  sits  at  ease  at  his  table  fine 
With  the  richest  of  meat  and  drink  before  him. 
I  eat  my  crust  with  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  your  eyes  are  cups  of  a  stronger  wine 
Than  any  his  steward  can  pour  him. 

What  if  the  autumn  days  grow  cold? 
Under  one  cloak  we  can  brave  the  weather. 
A  comrade's  troth  is  the  Romany  gold, 
And  we're  taking  the  road  together. 

AMELIA  JOSEPHINE  BURR 

THE  LITTLE  TAVERN  * 

I'LL  keep  a  little  tavern 

Below  the  high  hill's  crest, 
Wherein  all  gray-eyed  people 

May  set  them  down  and  rest. 
63 


There  shall  be  plates  a-plenty, 

And  mugs  to  melt  the  chill 
Of  all  the  gray-eyed  people 

Who  happen  up  the  hill. 

There  sound  will  sleep  the  traveler 

And  dream  his  journey's  end, 
But  I  will  rouse  at  midnight 

The  falling  fire  to  tend. 

Aye,  't  is  a  curious  fancy  — 

But  all  the  good  I  know 
Was  taught  me  out  of  two  gray  eyes 

A  long  time  ago. 

EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAY 


SACRED  IDLENESS 

WORK?  Not  to-day!  Ah!  no  —  that  were  to  do 
The  gracious  face  of  heaven  a  surly  wrong, 
Bright  day  so  manifestly  made  for  song, 
And  sweep  of  freedom's  wings  into  the  blue. 
Divinely  idle,  rather  let  us  lie, 
And  watch  the  lordly  unindustrious  sky 
Nor  trail  the  smoke  of  little  busy  cares 
Across  its  calm  —  Work?  Not  to-day!  not  I! 
64 


Work?  Why,  another  year  . . .  one  never  knows 
But  this  the  flowering  last  of  all  our  years; 
Which  of  us  can  be  sure  of  next  year's  rose? 
And  I,  that  have  so  loved  them  all  my  days, 
Not  yet  have  learned  the  names  of  half  the  flowers, 
Nor  half  enough  have  listened  to  the  birds. 

Nay!  while  the  marvel  of  the  May  is  ours, 
Earth's  book  of  lovely  hieroglyphic  words 
Let's  read  together,  each  green  letter  spell, 
And  each  illuminated  miracle, 
Decking  the  mystic  text  with  blue  and  gold  — 
That  Book  of  Beauty  where  all  Truth  is  told. 

Let's  watch  the  dogwood,  holding  silver  trays 
Of  blossom  out  across  the  woodland  ways, 
Whiter  than  breast  of  any  mortal  girl's; 
And  hark!  yon  bird  flinging  its  song  like  pearls, 
Sad  as  all  lovely  things  fore-doomed  to  die  — 
Work?  Not  to-day!  Ah!  no  —  not  you,  not  I. 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE 

THE  TREE-TOP  ROAD 

BEYOND  the  little  window 

Of  my  dull  House  of  Care 
One  road  is  always  beckoning 

When  days  are  gray  and  bare: 
65 


And  then  I  leave  the  dusty  street 

The  struggle  and  the  load  — 
I  pin  my  wings  upon  my  feet 

And  take  the  Tree-top  Road! 

Life's  sweetest  joys  are  hidden 

In  unsubstantial  things; 
An  April  rain,  a  fragrance, 

A  vision  of  blue  wings: 
And  what  are  memory  and  hope 

But  dreams?  And  yet  the  bread 
On  which  these  little  lives  of  ours 

Are  fed  and  comforted! 

Without  imagination 

The  soul  becomes  a  clod, 
Missing  the  trail  of  beauty 

Losing  the  way  to  God. 
And  I  have  built  a  templed-stair 

Out  of  a  lilac  bloom 
And  climbed  to  heaven  with  purple  pomp 

And  censers  of  perfume! 

Philosophers  and  sages 

Seeking  to  find  out  God 
With  puzzling  chart  and  compass 

And  strange  divining  rod, 
66 


I  think  He  must  come  down  to  see 
His  orchards  bloom  in  May,  — 

0  souls  of  ours,  put  on  your  wings 
And  try  the  Tree-top  Way! 

1  have  no  feud  with  Labor, 
But  at  the  Gates  of  June 

I  fling  away  my  dusty  pack 

And  join  in  Youth's  glad  tune. 
And  just  forgetting  for  awhile 

That  I  am  worn  and  gray 
Go  sailing  off  with  Peter  Pan 

Along  the  Tree-top  Way! 

MAY  RILEY  SMITH 


THE  BEST  ROAD  OF  ALL 

I  LIKE  a  road  that  leads  away  to  prospects  white  and  fair, 
A  road  that  is  an  ordered  road,  like  a  nun's  evening  prayer; 
But,  best  of  all,  I  love  a  road  that  leads  to  God  knows  where. 

You  come  upon  it  suddenly  —  you  cannot  seek  it  out; 
It's  like  a  secret  still  unheard  and  never  noised  about; 
But  when  you  see  it,  gone  at  once  is  every  lurking  doubt. 

It  winds  beside  some  rushing  stream  where  aspens  lightly  quiver 
It  follows  many  a  broken  field  by  many  a  shining  river; 
It  seems  to  lead  you  on  and  on,  forever  and  forever! 

67 


You  tramp  along  its  dusty  way,  beneath  its  shadowy  trees, 
And  hear  beside  you  chattering  birds  or  happy  booming  bees, 
And  all  around  you  golden  sounds,  the  green  leaves'  litanies. 

And  here's  a  hedge,  and  there's  a  cot;  and  then  —  strange, 

sudden  turns; 

A  dip,  a  rise,  a  little  glimpse  where  the  red  sunset  burns; 
A  bit  of  sky  at  eveningtime,  the  scent  of  hidden  ferns. 

A  winding  road,  a  loitering  road,  a  finger-mark  of  God 
Traced  when  the  Maker  of  the  world  leaned  over  ways  untrod. 
See!  Here  He  smiled  His  glowing  smile,  and  lo,  the  goldenrod! 

I  like  a  road  that  wanders  straight;  the  King's  highway  is  fair, 
And  lovely  are  the  sheltered  lanes  that  take  you  here  and  there; 
But,  best  of  all,  I  love  a  road  that  leads  to  God  knows  where. 

CHARLES  HANSON  TOWNE 


THE  ROAD'S  END 

SOMETIMES  the  road  was  a  twisted  riddle 
Where  one  might  stray  for  a  crooked  mile, 

But  0,  she  danced  to  the  pipes  and  fiddle 
Most  of  the  while,  most  of  the  while. 

Sometimes  the  wind  and  the  rain  together 
Blurred  the  hill  that  she  needs  must  climb, 
68 


But  0,  she  tripped  it  in  primrose  weather 
Most  of  the  time,  most  of  the  time. 

Who  may  say  that  the  journey  tried  her? 

Never  a  Romany  went  as  gay, 
Seeing  that  true  love  walked  beside  her 

All  of  the  way,  all  of  the  way. 

THEODOSIA  GARRISON 


THE  AIR 

THE  air  shone  with  light  and  rang  with  music 
And  carried  memories  of  flowers  to  me, 
Where  I  lay,  resting  a  weary  head  and  shoulders 
Hard  against  the  sod,  under  a  tree. 

The  air  moved  gently,  joyfully,  over,  under, 
With  delicate  singing  soothing  my  unrest, 
While  I  lay  there,  too  weary  even  to  murmur, 
Too  spent  to  answer  life,  even  with  a  jest. 

The  air  was  lovely.  There  I  slept  and  wakened, 
And  still  there  was  the  miracle  of  the  air; 
Rested,  I  flung  my  arms  apart  in  worship 
To  think  of  this  glory  moving  everywhere. 

MARGUERITE  WILKINSON 


THE  CELL 

WHEN  from  the  hush  of  this  cool  wood 

I  go,  Lord,  to  the  noisy  mart, 
Give  me  among  the  multitude, 

I  pray,  a  lonely  heart. 

Yes,  build  in  me  a  secret  cell 
Where  quietness  shall  be  a  song: 

In  that  green  solitude  I  '11  dwell, 
And  praise  Thee  all  day  long. 

GEORGE  ROSTREVOB 

[SHE  BECAME  WHAT  SHE  BEHELD" 

BEE  in  the  lavender 
Searching  for  provender, 
If  I  were  small 

And  greedy  like  thee, 
How  slender  and  tall 
Would  the  lavender  be. 

High  in  the  trees 

I  scramble  and  cling, 
Softly  the  breeze 

Sets  me  a-swing. 

Deep  in  delight 
I  bury  my  nose, 
70 


Holding  on  tight 
With  fingers  and  toes. 

Honey  and  wind 

And  lavender  blue 
Here  do  I  find 

All  the  day  through  — 
Bee  in  the  lavender 
Searching  for  provender! 

MARGARET  CECILIA  FURSE 


TELL  ALL  THE  WORLD 

TELL  all  the  world  that  summer's  here  again 

With  song  and  joy;  tell  them,  that  they  may  know 

How,  on  the  hillside,  in  the  shining  fields 
New  clumps  of  violets  and  daisies  grow. 

Tell  all  the  world  that  summer's  here  again, 
That  white  clouds  voyage  through  a  sky  so  still 

With  blue  tranquillity,  it  seems  to  hang 
One  windless  tapestry,  from  hill  to  hill. 

Tell  all  the  world  that  summer's  here  again: 

Folk  go  about  so  solemnly  and  slow, 
Walking  each  one  his  grooved  and  ordered  way  — 

I  fear  that,  otherwise  they  will  not  know! 

HARRY  KEMP 
71 


A  B  C'S  IN  GREEN 

THE  trees  are  God's  great  alphabet: 
With  them  He  writes  in  shining  green 
Across  the  world  His  thoughts  serene. 

He  scribbles  poems  against  the  sky 
With  a  gay,  leafy  lettering, 
For  us  and  for  our  bettering. 

The  wind  pulls  softly  at  His  page, 
And  every  star  and  bird 
Repeats  in  dutiful  delight  His  word, 
And  every  blade  of  grass 
Flutters  to  class. 

Like  a  slow  child  that  does  not  heed, 
I  stand  at  summer's  knees, 
And  from  the  primer  of  the  wood 
I  spell  that  life  and  love  are  good, 

I  learn  to  read. 

LEONORA  SPEYEB 

WEEK-END 

MORNING!  Wake  up!  Awaken!  All  the  boughs 
Are  rippling  on  the  air  across  the  green. 

The  youngest  birds  are  singing  to  the  house. 
Blood  of  the  world!  —  and  is  the  country  clean? 
72 


Disturb  the  precinct.  Cool  it  with  a  shout. 

Sing  as  you  trundle  down  to  light  the  fire. 
Turn  the  encumbering  shadows  tumbling  out, 

And  fill  the  chambers  with  a  new  desire. 
Life  is  no  good,  unless  the  morning  brings 

White  happiness  and  quick  delight  of  day. 
These  half-inanimate  domestic  things 
Must  all  be  useful,  or  must  go  away. 
Coffee,  be  fragrant.  Porridge  in  my  plate, 
Increase  the  vigour  to  fulfil  my  fate. 

HAROLD  MONEO 


THE  TRYST 

'LONG  about  dusk  I'd  see  him  go 

Almost  a-runnin'  through  the  snow 

Bound  for  the  marsh,  like  a  feller  who's  late 

Meetin'  some  girl,  you  know,  —  keepin'  a  "date." 

"Jest  like  them  dudes,"  thinks  I,  "to  roam 

With  girls  in  the  marsh,  and  their  wives  to  home!" 

So,  one  fine  day,  I  on  with  my  hood 
And  follered  his  tracks  to  the  edge  o'  the  wood 
Where  the  marsh  begins,  to  see  who  it  was 
Meetin'  my  neighbor's  man,  —  because 
I  liked  Mis'  Joyce,  —  and  she  oughter  know 
O'  the  goin's-on  out  there  in  the  snow! 
73 


Well,  what  do  you  s'pose  I  saw?  —  Instead  er 

A  girl,  there  wa'n't  nothin'  but  common  salt  meader, 

And  him  on  the  bridge  pacin'  up  and  down 

Watchin'  the  grasses  float  and  drown 

In  the  flood  o'  the  tide,  and  the  cakes  of  ice 

Swim  up  westward.  He  looked  so  nice, 

And  pleased  and  content,  it  seemed  like  he 

Was  findin'  himself  rare  company; 

And  never  once  did  he  turn  his  head 

From  the  west,  to  look  for  a  skirt  instead. 

I  sneaked  back  home  by  the  pasture  lane, 
And  studied  and  puzzled  and  addled  my  brain 
To  guess  why  he  hurried  so,  only  to  stand 
And  gape  at  the  west  with  his  hat  in  his  hand. 

v 

Next  mornin'  says  I  to  my  neighbor:  "Say, 
Why  does  your  man  allus  hurry  that  way 
Past  my  house,  the  end  of  the  day?" 
Says  she:  "To  look  at  the  sunset,  dear, 
Out  where  there's  nothing  to  interfere." 
Says  I:  "Now  ain't  you  eity  folks  queer! 
What's  in  a  sunset  for  to  see?" 
"Look  for  yourself,  my  dear,"  says  she. 

So  late  that  day,  I  thought  for  to  look 
Out  o'  the  winder  near  where  I  cook. 
74 


The  sky  was  a  nice  red  birthday  cake 
Spattered  with  candles. 

Mercy's  sake! 

I  dropped  the  cutter;  I  dropped  the  dough, 

I  stood  there  gapin'  outdoors  as  though 

One  o'  them  fairy  tales  was  true, 

And  I  was  a  princess  with  nothin'  to  do 

But  watch  a  girl  sewin'  with  silver  thread 

On  pink  satin  curtains  to  hang  'round  my  head. 

I  hurried  across  and  opened  the  door; 

Never  seed  nothin'  so  purty  afore! 

Then,  under  my  eyes,  things  turned  to  a  dome 

O'  melting  gold,  like  a  honey-comb. 

Some  bee  must  'a'  come  from  that  fairy  hive 

And  stung  me,  and  made  me  feel  all  alive.  .  . . 

Funny  what  tricks  yer  eyes  will  play 
If  any  one  happens  to  show  'em  the  way! 

ROBERT  HAVEN  SCHAUFFLER 


REVELATION 

WALKING  these  long,  late  twilights  of  the  Spring, 
Where  all  the  fret  of  life  seems  nothing  worth, 

And  grief,  itself,  a  half-forgotten  thing, 
Less  keen  than  these  cool  odours  of  the  earth,  — 
75 


I  sometimes  think  we  find  the  secret  gate 
That  gives  on  gardens  of  enchanted  light, 

Restoring  glories  that  we  lost  of  late, 
To  quiet  wisdom  and  more  certain  sight. 

A  holier  mood  will  haunt  our  stubborn  will, 
Till  we  shall  see  revealments  through  the  grass, 

And  stop,  abashed,  before  a  daffodil, 
A  shining  weed,  a  stone  on  ways  we  pass,  — 

Stand  with  bared  head  before  the  evening  star, 

And  know  these  holy  things  for  what  they  are. 

DAVID  MORTON 


THRIFT 

No  beauty  beauty  overthrows, 
But  every  joy  its  season  knows, 
And  all  enchanted  hours  prepare 
Enchantment  for  to-morrow's  wear. 

Who  in  the  just  society 
That  walks  with  him  this  hour  can  see 
But  shadows  of  another  bliss, 
Loses  both  that  delight  and  this. 

Grieve  not  the  parting  day,  for  soon 

The  nightingales  will  sing  the  moon 

76 


Climbing  the  track  that  now  the  sun 
Leaves  when  the  songs  of  day  are  done. 

And  grieve  not  when  her  beauty  fails, 
And  silence  keeps  the  nightingales, 
For  that  eclipse  again  will  bring 
The  sun  with  all  his  birds  to  sing. 

JOHN  DRINKWATER 


COUNTERSIGN 

OUT  in  the  dark-night  long 
I  heard  the  Pine  Tree's  song 
Make  secret  harmonies 
For  frozen  earth  and  skies  — 

And  in  the  first  wan  light 
I  watched  a  grey  gull's  flight 
Toward  morning  and  the  sea: 
These  things  did  counsel  me 

To  find  for  Doubt  a  wing: 
To  teach  Despair  to  sing: 
To  make  Faith's  Countersign 
A  grey  Gull  and  a  Pine! 

ARTHUR  KETCHUM 
77 


SEA-GULL  SONG 

MY  thoughts  are  mighty  sea-gulls, 

Shining  out  to  sea, 
As  white  and  strong  as  sea-gulls, 

As  avid  of  the  sea. 
They  rest  upon  the  green  waves, 

They  mount  up,  one  by  one. 
My  thoughts  are  lordly  sea-gulls, 

Lovely  in  the  sun. 

My  body  stays  in  bondage 

Upon  the  shore,  I  know; 
But  lazily  float  the  sea-gulls 

Like  great  flakes  of  snow. 
Lazily  float  the  sea-gulls, 

Drifting  in  the  blue, 
My  thoughts  are  bright  as  sea-gulls, 

Their  flight  as  true. 

They  scorn  the  towns,  the  shoreline; 

Their  home  is  in  the  sky; 
They  joy  to  breast  the  tempest, 

My  thoughts,  more  strong  than  I. 
Mean  household  tasks  may  hold  me 

And  four  walls  conquer  me, 
But  my  thoughts  are  sea-gulls 

Lifting  out  to  sea. 

MABY  CAROLYN  DA  VIES 
78 


THE  WHOLE  DUTY  OF  BERKSHIRE  BROOKS 

To  build  the  trout  a  crystal  stair; 
To  comb  the  hillside's  thick  green  hair; 
To  water  jewel-weed  and  rushes; 
To  teach  first  notes  to  baby  thrushes; 
To  flavor  raspberry  and  apple 
And  make  a  whirling  pool  to  dapple 
With  scattered  gold  of  late  October; 
To  urge  wise  laughter  on  the  sober 
And  lend  a  dream  to  those  who  laugh; 
To  chant  the  beetle's  epitaph; 
To  mirror  the  blue  dragonfly, 
Frail  air-plane  of  a  slender  sky; 
Over  the  stones  to  lull  and  leap 
Herding  the  bubbles  like  white  sheep; 
The  claims  of  worry  to  deny, 
And  whisper  sorrow  into  sleep! 

GRACE  HAZARD  CONKLING 


ON  THE  VERANDAH 

LARKSPUR;  windy  July; 
Trees  riding  up  from  the  southward, 
Green  waves  frozen  before  they  fell, 
Shattered  with  grey  rifts  of  light: 
79 


Flickering  in  amber  sunbeams, 
Glinting  with  gold  as  the  sunset  passed, 
We  sat  together  and  saw  them  change, 
And  in  our  hearts  was  peace. 

In  calm  and  opulent  terraces 
The  sky  unrolled  ribbed  cloud  for  us; 
Marble-veined  azure,  peacefully  walled. 
Two  and  two  went  the  grave  white  angels 
Smiling  and  sometimes  speaking  to  us: 
The  lower  ones  brooding  in  shadow, 
The  upper  ones  romping  in  sunlight 
Where  like  white  ladders  the  light  ran  up 
From  the  cellars  to  upper  balconies, 
Where  with  wind-blown  daisies  frail  gardens  bloomed 
in  mid-air. 

We  watched  them  from  the  verandah, 
Sitting  together,  you  holding  my  hand; 
The  wind  flapped  the  heavy  bough-curtains, 
And  all  our  thoughts  were  at  rest. 
We  were  not  troubled  with  anything, 
We  knew  that  this  day  was  made  for  us, 
We  knew  that  new  days  would  come  in  time, 
The  future  and  the  past  were  now  one. 

Long  we  watched  dark  swallows  hovering 
Swift  up  the  wind-waves  of  the  sky, 
80 


Fluttering,  soaring,  and  calling, 

Wheeling  like  well-ordered  oarsmen. 

They  passed  through  the  sunpool  washing  the  trees, 

Rippling  with  warm  heat  over  the  world, 

Caressing  and  changing  the  final  faint  clouds, 

Before  they  receded  to  rest. 

Evening  bells  sounded  hollow,  forlorn, 

Out  of  a  valley  wreathed  in  white  mist; 

It  was  the  time  you  must  quit  my  side. 

You  went  without  pain  or  regret. 

Such  a  perfect  understanding  ruled  over  our  hearts, 

That,  parting,  I  felt  that  you  still  held  my  hand; 

For  all  of  my  life  was  known  by  you 

In  such  serene  comprehensive  surrender, 

That  I  slept  every  night  with  no  false  dreams  to  mar 

my  sleep. 

JOHN  GOULD  FLETCHER 

ONE  HOUR 

I 

SNATCHED  from  the  greedy  hand  of  ruthless  Time, 
We  saved  one  hour  of  golden  afternoon. 
Oh!  Love,  it  seemed  our  hearts,  as  one,  did  chime 
In  subtle  symphony;  and  so  in  tune 
Our  spirits  were,  that  speech  was  hardly  part 
Of  the  deep  language  of  the  happy  heart. 

81 


n 

The  sunset  lingered  in  the  misty  sky, 
Till  dim  cloud  shadows  in  the  water  grew, 
And  lilting  reed-birds  from  the  rushes,  by 
The  gliding  stream,  across  our  vision  flew, 
With  low,  sweet  cries,  as  though  to  thrill  the  ear 
With  the  close  thought  that  Nature  was  so  near. 

ra 

We  seemed  in  unison  with  bird  and  flower, 

At  one  with  all  the  soft  and  sensuous  light; 

I  thought  of  Danse  in  her  golden  shower 

And  felt  the  God  had  claimed  me  as  his  right  — 

The  terrible,  strong  God  whom  men  call  Love, 

Who  rules  "the  Earth  below,  the  Heavens  above!" 

rv 

And  yet,  in  that  sweet  hour,  the  Soul  was  King! 
And  held  the  heart  in  pure  and  potent  sway,  — 
And  we  can  ever  to  that  memory  bring 
The  grateful  knowledge  that  our  perfect  day, 
With  all  its  essence  of  a  mortal  union, 
Was  touched  with  high  and  Heavenly  communion. 

CORINNB  ROOSEVELT  ROBINSON 


82 


FRIENDS 

I  HAVE  a  friend  whose  stillness  rests  me  so 

His  heart  must  know 
How  closely  we  together,  silent,  grow. 

I  have  a  friend  whose  brilliancy  inspires 

And  rarely  tires 
When  we  two  warm  our  spirits  at  his  fires. 

I  have  a  friend  whose  charity  delights 

In  others'  rights. 
We  two  sit  talking  often  late  of  nights. 

I  have  a  friend  whose  discipline  I  need; 

We  have  agreed 
That  neither  from  this  schooling  shall  be  freed. 

I  have  a  friend  whose  calmness  some  mistake. 

But  we  two  make 
Of  suffering  more  than  just  its  grief  and  ache. 

I  have  so  many  friends  —  each  one  fulfills 

Just  what  God  wills. 
For  He  through  them  His  best  in  me  instills. 

And  so  twice  fortunate  am  I  to  find 

Friends  great  and  kind  — 
Each  one  himself,  yet  part  of  God's  own  mind. 

VLYN  JOHNSON 

83 


SAINTE  JEANNE  OF  FRANCE 

SAINTE  JEANNE  went  harvesting  in  France, 
But  ah!  what  found  she  there? 
The  little  streams  were  running  red, 
And  the  torn  fields  were  bare; 
And  all  about  the  ruined  towers 
Where  once  her  king  was  crowned, 
The  hurtling  plows  of  war  and  death 
Had  scored  the  desolate  ground. 

Sainte  Jeanne  turned  to  the  hearts  of  men 

That  harvest  might  not  fail; 

Her  sword  was  girt  upon  her  thigh, 

Her  dress  was  silvern  mail; 

And  all  the  war-worn  ranks  were  glad 

To  feel  her  presence  shine; 

Her  smile  was  like  the  mellow  sun 

Along  that  weary  line. 

She  gave  her  silence  to  their  lips, 
Her  visions  to  their  eyes, 
And  the  quick  glory  of  her  sword 
She  lent  to  their  emprise; 
The  shadow  of  her  gentle  hand 
Touched  Belgium's  burning  cross, 
And  set  the  seal  of  power  and  praise 
On  agony  and  loss. 
84 


Sainte  Jeanne  went  harvesting  in  France, 

And  oh!  what  found  she  there? 

The  brave  seed  of  her  scattering 

In  fruitage  everywhere; 

And  where  her  strong  and  tender  heart 

Was  broken  in  the  flame, 

She  found  the  very  heart  of  France 

Had  flowered  in  her  name. 

MARIAN  COUTHOUT  SMITH 


THE  PLOUGHMAN 

GOD  will  not  let  my  field  lie  fallow. 

The  ploughshare  is  sharp,  the  feet  of  his  oxen  are  heavy; 

They  hurt. 

But  I  cannot  stay  God  from  His  ploughing, 

I,  the  lord  of  the  field. 

While  I  stand  waiting, 

His  shoulders  loom  upon  me  from  the  mist, 

He  has  gone  past  me  down  the  furrow,  shouting  a  song. 

(I  had  said,  it  shall  rest  for  a  season. 
The  larks  had  built  in  the  grass.  .  .  .) 

He  will  not  let  my  field  lie  fallow. 

KARLE  WILSON  BAKER 

85 


THANKSGIVING 

THE  roar  of  the  world  is  in  my  ears. 

Thank  God  for  the  roar  of  the  world! 
Thank  God  for  the  mighty  tide  of  fears 

Against  me  always  hurled! 

Thank  God  for  the  bitter  and  ceaseless  strife, 
And  the  sting  of  His  chastening  rod! 

Thank  God  for  the  stress  and  the  pain  of  life, 
And  Oh,  thank  God  for  God! 

JOYCE  KILMER 


THANKS  FROM  EARTH  TO  HEAVEN 

GOD  pours  for  me  His  draught  divine,  — 
Moonlight,  which  is  the  poet's  wine,  i 
He  has  made  this  perfect  night 
For  my  wonder  and  delight. 

What  is  it  He  would  declare 
In  this  beauty  everywhere  — 
What  dearest  thought  of  His  is  heard 
In  the  moonlight's  secret  word? 

To  the  human,  the  Supreme 
Poet  speaks  in  wind  and  stream, 

86 


Tenderly  He  does  express 
His  meaning  in  each  loveliness. 

Simply  does  He  speak  and  clear, 
As  man  to  man,  His  message  dear  — 
Aye  —  and  well  enough  He  knows 
Who  shall  understand  His  rose! 

Night  is  but  His  parable 
Secretly  where  He  would  tell, 
As  to  an  intimate  of  His, 
The  mystery  of  all  that  is; 

Nor  humblest,  nor  most  exquisite 
Detail  or  phrase  does  He  omit 
From  His  great  poem,  confident 
It  shall  be  noted  what  He  meant. 

And  cunningly  doth  still  devise 
New  Aprils  for  His  poet's  eyes 
For  whose  joy  all  things  were  wrought, 
That  without  him  were  as  nought. 

Holy  Poet,  I  have  heard 
Thy  lost  music,  Thy  least  word; 
Not  Thy  beauty's  tiniest  part 
Has  escaped  this  loving  heart! 
87 


While  the  great  world  goes  its  way 
I  watch  in  wonder  all  the  day, 
All  the  night  my  spirit  sings 
For  the  loveliness  of  things. 

But  for  lonely  men  like  me 
It  were  wasted  utterly 
All  this  beauty,  vainly  spent,  — 
Unavailing  lavishment. 

Little  cricket,  never  fear, 
There  is  one  who  waits  to  hear  — 
Nor  is  there  loveliness  so  shy 
It  shall  escape  a  poet's  eye. 

For  the  world  enough  it  were 
To  have  a  useful  earth  and  bare, 
But  for  poets  it  is  made 
All  in  loveliness  arrayed. 

For  his  eye  the  little  moth 
Wears  her  coat  of  colored  cloth, 
And  to  please  his  ear  the  deep 
Ocean  murmurs  in  her  sleep. 

Rustle  gently  in  the  breeze 

For  his  delight  the  poplar  trees, 

And  in  the  song  within  his  head 

The  thanks  from  earth  to  heaven  is  said. 

JOHN  HALL  WHEELOCK 


THE  POET 

SUN  made  the  lily  white, 

The  glory  of  the  flowery  earth; 

Sun  made  the  swan,  which  is 

The  lily  of  a  life  white-winged; 

The  eagle,  whom  he  lures 

Spell-bound  to  his  great  heights, 

And  the  gold  shimmer  of  the  moon, 

The  lovers'  loving  comrade. 

And  then  he  dreamed  a  creature  fuller 

Of  lilies,  eagles,  swans,  and  shimmers, 

And  made  the  poet.  He 

Alone  beholds  Thee  face  to  face, 

O  God;  and  he  alone, 

Reaching  into  Thy  heart,  reveals 

To  us  Thy  mysteries. 

KOSTES  PALAMAS 
(Translated  by  Aristides  E.  Phoutrides) 


"TELL  ME,  WHAT  IS  POETRY—" 

TELL  me,  what  is  poetry  — 
Wind  in  the  pines  along  the  sea, 
Wind  in  the  frost-browned  lanes  of  sedge, 
Lying  close  to  the  sand's  white  edge; 


Song  of  the  waves  and  the  muttering  roar 
Of  breakers  lashing  a  wintry  shore, 
Tinkling  sounds  where  waters  slip 
Through  blue  sea  caves,  drip  by  drip. 

Tell  me,  what  is  poetry  — 
The  earth's  unceasing  melody; 
Dawn  song,  night  song,  birds  awhir, 
Fields  where  the  bee  is  worshiper; 
Drowsy  drone  of  the  summer  rain, 
Chirruping  calls  from  ripening  grain, 
Cicada,  cricket,  shrilling  low; 
Nature's  music  in  ebb  and  flow. 

Tell  me,  what  is  poetry  — 

The  heart's  undying  ecstasy, 

Songs  of  our  faith,  our  hopes,  our  tears, 

Songs  of  the  joys  of  passing  years, 

Laughter  of  children,  glory  of  spring, 

Tenderness  for  each  blind  dumb  thing; 

Praise  when  we  bend  'neath  the  chastening  rod; 

Music  that  leads  us  up  to  God. 

JEANNE  ROBERT  FOSTER 

THE  LISTENER 

ONCE,  ere  the  silver,  sprinkled  heavens  were  hung  in  Space,  there 

lived  a  Poet  — 

Alone,  unspeaking  and  unspoken  to,  amidst  a  universal  muteness. 

90 


One  eternal  moment  his  heart  beat  and  he  wished  an  Other,  who 

might  listen  to  his  voice. 

He  spake;  and  thus  was  born  Vak,  Being  of  perfect  beauty. 
And  the  Poet  opened  his  eyes  and  beheld  Vak,  the  Gracious  One, 

sweetly  standing  before  the  ocean  of  stillness,  and  he 

blessed  her; 
And  from  his  blessing-word  were  born  three  sons  —  Truth, 

Right,  and  Immortality. 
And  Vak  smiled  with  her  eyes  and  from  her  smile  were  born  three 

lovely  daughters  —  Dawn,  Day,  and  Twilight. 
The  three  sons  sing  in  the  heavens,  in  mid-space,  and  on  earth, 
And  the  three  fair  daughters  light  the  lamp  in  the  three  same 

spheres. 
But  Vak  lives  ever  in  the  Poet's  heart,  listening  to  the  voice  of 

his  soul. 

£nf  ANANDA  ACHARYA 


"ROSES  ARE  BEAUTY" 

ROSES  are  beauty,  but  I  never  see 

Those  blood  drops  from  the  burning  heart  of  June 
Glowing  like  thought  upon  the  living  tree, 

Without  a  pity  that  they  die  so  soon, 
Die  into  petals,  like  those  roses  old, 

Those  women,  who  were  summer  hi  men's  hearts 
Before  the  smile  upon  the  Sphinx  was  cold, 

Or  sand  had  hid  the  Syrian  and  his  arts. 
91 


0  myriad  dust  of  beauty  that  lies  thick 
Under  our  feet  that  not  a  single  grain 

But  stirred  and  moved  in  beauty  and  was  quick 
For  one  brief  moon  and  died  nor  lived  again; 
But  when  the  moon  rose  lay  upon  the  grass 
Pasture  to  living  beauty,  life  that  was. 

1  never  see  the  red  rose  crown  the  year, 

Nor  feel  the  young  grass  underneath  my  tread, 
Without  the  thought  "This  living  beauty  here 

Is  earth's  remembrance  of  a  beauty  dead. 
Surely  where  all  this  glory  is  displayed 

Love  has  been  quick,  like  fire,  to  high  ends; 
Here,  in  this  grass,  an  altar  has  been  made 

For  some  white  joy,  some  sacrifice  of  friends; 
Here,  where  I  stand,  some  leap  of  human  brains 

Has  touched  immortal  things  and  left  its  trace, 
The  earth  is  happy  here,  the  gleam  remains; 
Beauty  is  here,  the  spirit  of  the  place, 
I  touch  the  faith  which  nothing  can  destroy, 
The  earth,  the  living  church  of  ancient  joy." 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 


92 


THE  HUMMINGBIRD 

THE  sunlight  speaks,  and  its  voice  is  a  bird: 
It  glimmers  half-guessed,  half-seen,  half-heard, 
Above  the  flowerbed,  over  the  lawn  .  .  . 
A  flashing  dip,  and  it  is  gone, 
And  all  it  lends  to  the  eye  is  this  — 
A  sunbeam  giving  the  air  a  kiss. 

HARRY  KEMP 


'.'WHAT  IF  WE  MADE  OUR  SENSES  SO  ASTUTE'! 

WHAT  if  we  made  our  senses  so  astute, 
Our  minds  so  quick,  our  hearing  so  acute, 
That  we  could  hear 
The  infinitesimal  sound 
That  seeds  must  make  in  falling  to  the  ground 
At  turning  of  the  year? 
What  if  we  heard 
The  breathing  of  a  bird, 
The  tapping  of  the  black  ant's  little  feet, 
The  brown  snail  tracing  out  a  silver  street? 
Perhaps  more  kind,  and  so  more  swiftly  wise, 
We'd  apprehend  tears  welling  in  the  eyes 
We  love  the  most,  and  so  could  speak  the  word 
93 


To  dry,  or  send  them  falling  through  a  smile, 
In  just  a  little  while. 
I  think  all  tears  that  fell  at  happy  times 
Might  make  a  little  pattering  sound  of  chimes. 

AMORY  HARE 

THE  COIN 

INTO  my  heart's  treasury 

I  slipped  a  coin 
That  time  cannot  take 

Nor  a  thief  purloin,  — 
Oh  better  than  the  minting 

Of  a  gold-crowned  king 
Is  the  safe-kept  memory 

Of  a  lovely  thing. 

SARA  TEASDALE 

'THE  MIRROR  OF  ALL  AGES  ARE  THE  EYES" 

THE  mirror  of  all  ages  are  the  eyes 
Of  some  remembering  god,  wherein  are  sealed 
The  beauties  of  the  world,  the  April  field, 
Young  faces,  blowing  hair,  and  autumn  skies. 
The  mirrors  of  the  world  shall  break,  and  yield 
To  life  again  what  never  really  dies; 
The  forms  and  colours  of  earth's  pageantries, 
Unwithered  and  undimmod,  shall  be  revealed. 
94 


And  in  that  moment  silence  shall  unfold 
Forgotten  songs  that  she  has  held  interred, 
The  ocean  rising  on  the  shores  of  gold, 
Flecked  with  white  laughter  and  love's  lyric  word; 
All  happy  music  that  the  world  has  heard; 
All  beauty  that  eternal  eyes  behold. 

ROBERT  HILLYEB 

WINDOWS 

I  LOOKED  through  others'  windows 
On  an  enchanted  earth, 
But  out  of  my  own  window  — 
Solitude  and  dearth. 

And  yet  there  is  a  mystery 
I  cannot  understand  — 
That  others  through  my  window 
See  an  enchanted  land. 

JESSIE  B.  RITTENHOUSE 

AFTERNOON 

SOME  one  is  coming  to  call. 

Up  the  red  brick  path  between  daffodils  dancing 
I  see  white  ruffles  that  blow: 
A  parasol,  dipping  against  the  sun. 
It  is  some  one  stout,  and  warm  in  her  new  white  gloves. 
05 


My  old  green  apron  is  smudged  with  the  garden-mould. 
My  hands  are  the  hands  of  a  peasant-woman.  My  hair 
Comes  tumbling  down  into  my  eyes. 

I  wish  I  could  lie  down  flat  like  a  child 

And  hide  in  the  grass,  while  she  rings  and  rings, 

And  sticks  her  card  under  the  door  with  a  sigh, 

And  puffs  away  down  the  path. 

I  wish  —  but  the  parasol  bobs, 

And  she  bobs  like  a  mandarin's  lady, 

Smiling  and  bridling  and  beckoning. 

If  I  were  a  daffodil,  in  an  apron  of  green  and  gold  — 

But  there  she  stands  on  the  path, 

And  her  gloves  are  so  new  they  squeak  with  newness  and 

stoutness, 
And  I  know  she  will  talk  of  the  weather  and  stay  an  hour  — 

If  I  were  a  daffodil  — 

Or  a  little  cool  blinking  bug 

Down  in  the  daffodil  leaves  — 

FANNIE  STEARNS  DAVIS 

THE  GREAT  MAN 

I  CANNOT  always  feel  his  greatness. 
Sometimes  he  walks  beside  me,  step  by  step, 
And  paces  slowly  in  the  ways  — 
The  simple,  wingless  ways 


That  my  thought  treads.  He  gossips  with  me  then 

And  finds  it  good; 

Not  as  an  eagle  might,  his  great  wings  folded,  be  content 

To  walk  a  little,  knowing  it  his  choice, 

But  as  a  simple  man, 

My  friend. 

And  I  forget. 

Then  suddenly  a  call  floats  down 

From  the  clear  airy  spaces, 

The  great,  keen  lonely  heights  of  being. 

Then  he  who  was  my  comrade  hears  the  call 

And  rises  from  my  side,  and  soars, 

Deep-chanting  to  the  heights. 

Then  I  remember. 

And  my  upward  gaze  goes  with  him,  and  I  see 

Far  off  against  the  sky 

The  glint  of  golden  sunlight  on  his  wings. 

EUNICE  TIETJENS 


A  WOMAN 

SHE  has  an  understanding  with  the  years; 
For  always  in  her  eyes  there  was  light 
As  though  she  kept  a  secret  none  might  guess  — 
Some  confidence  that  Time  had  made  her  heart. 

97 


So  calmly  did  she  bear  the  weight  of  pain, 
With  such  serenity  accept  the  joy, 
It  seemed  she  had  a  mother  love  for  life, 
And  all  the  days  were  children  at  her  breast. 

SCUDDER  MlDDLETON 


THE  MOTHER  IN  THE  HOUSE 

FOE  such  as  you,  I  do  believe, 
Spirits  their  softest  carpets  weave, 
And  spread  them  out  with  gracious  hand 
Wherever  you  walk,  wherever  you  stand. 

For  such  as  you,  of  scent  and  dew 
Spirits  their  rarest  nectar  brew, 
And  where  you  sit  and  where  you  sup 
Pour  beauty's  elixir  in  your  cup. 

For  all  day  long,  like  other  folk, 
You  bear  the  burden,  wear  the  yoke, 
And  yet  when  I  look  in  your  eyes  at  eve 
You  are  lovelier  than  ever,  I  do  believe. 

HERMANN  HAGEDORN 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL 

BECAUSE  on  the  branch  that  is  tapping  my  pane 

A  sun-wakened  leaf-bud,  uncurled, 
Is  bursting  its  rusty  brown  sheathing  in  twain; 

I  know  there  is  Spring  in  the  world. 

Because  through  the  sky-patch  whose  azure  and  white 

My  window  frames  all  the  day  long 
A  yellow-bird  dips  in  a  billow  of  flight, 

I  know  there  is  Song. 

Because  even  here  in  this  Mansion  of  Woe 
Where  creep  the  dull  hours,  leaden-shod, 
Compassion  and  Tenderness  aid  me,  I  know 

There  is  God. 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 

HOPE'S  SONG 

SILENT  is  the  dark 

Before  the  sun-beams  come, 
Yet  if  it  were  not  for  the  lark, 

The  dawn  would  be  as  dumb, 

And  thus  my  soul  would  be 
As  dark  and  still  as  night, 
If  't  were  not  for  the  minstrelsy 
Of  Hope  that  sings  of  Light. 

FRANCIS  CARLIN 
99 


DE  GLORY  ROAD 

0  DE  Glory  Road!  0  de  Glory  Road! 

I'm  gwine  ter  drap  mah  load  upon  de  Glory  Road. 

1  lay  on  mah  bed  untell  one  erclock, 

An'  de  Lawd  come  callin'  all  His  faithful  floek. 

An'  He  call  "Whoo-ee!",  an'  He  call  "Whooee!" 

An'  I  knowed  dat  de  Sabior  wuz  ercallin'  me. 

An'  He  call  "Whoo-ee!",  an'  He  call  "Whoo-ee!", 

An'  I  cry,  "Massa  Jesus,  is  you  callin'  me?" 

An'  He  call  "Whoo-ee!",  an'  He  call  "Whoo-ee!", 

An'  I  riz  up  f'um  mah  pallet,  an'  I  cry,  "Hyahs  me!" 

De  Lawd  sez,  "  Niggah,  ain'  I  call  yer  thrice 
Ter  ride  erlong  behin'  me  up  ter  Paradise, 
On  de  Glory  Road,  on  de  Glory  Road?" 
An'  I  clime  up  ter  de  saddle,  an'  I  jined  de  load! 

De  hawse  he  wuz  longer  dan  a  thousan'  mile'; 
His  tail  went  lashin',  an'  his  hoofs  wuz  wil' ; 
His  mane  wuz  flamin',  an'  his  eyes  wuz  moons, 
An'  his  mouth  kep'  singin'  Halleluyah  tunes! 

De  Lawd  sez,  "Niggah,  why  'n'  cher  look  erroun'?" 
An'  dar  we  wuz  flyin'  over  risin'  groun'. 
Powerful  hills,  an'  mountains  too, 
An'  de  earth  an'  de  people  wuz  drapt  f'um  view. 

100 


An*  I  hyahd  all  'roun'  me  how  de  sperits  sang, 
An'  de  Lawd  sang  louder  dan  de  whole  shebang! 

De  Lawd  sez,  "Niggah,  why  'n'  cher  look  ergin?" 
An'  dar  wuz  de  Debbil,  on  de  back  uv  Sin, 
A-bangin'  on  de  critter  wid  his  whip  an'  goad, 
An'  boun'  he  gwine  ter  kotch  us,  on  de  Glory  Road! 
"0  Lawdy,  it's  de  Debbil,  comin'  straight  f'um  Hell! 
I  kin  tell  him  by  his  roarin',  an'  de  brimstone  smell!" 
But  de  Lawd  sez,  "Niggah,  he  ain'  kotch  us  yit!" 
An'  He  lashed  an'  He  hustled,  an'  He  loosed  de  bit. 
Den  de  Debbil  crep'  closuh,  an'  I  hyahd  him  yell, 
"I'm  gwine  ter  kotch  a  niggah,  fur  ter  roas'  in  Hell!" 
An'  I  cried,  "Lawd,  sabe  me!"  An'  de  Lawd  cry,  "Sho!" 
An'  hyah  it  was  Hebben,  an'  we  shet  de  do'. 

O  Glory,  Glory,  how  de  angels  sang! 
O  Glory,  Glory,  how  de  rafters  rang! 
An'  Moses  'n'  Aaron,  an'  Methusalum, 
Dey  shout  an'  dey  holler,  an'  dey  beat  de  drum. 
King  Solomon  kissed  me,  an'  his  thousan'  wives, 
Jes'  like  dey'd  knowed  me,  durin'  all  dey  lives; 
An'  de  Lawd  sez,  "Niggah,  take  a  gran'-stan'  seat. 
But  I  'specks  youse  hongry;  have  a  bite  ter  eat?" 
An'  de  ravens  fed  me,  an'  Elijah  prayed, 
An'  de  Sabed  Ones  gathered,  while  de  organ  played, 
An'  dey  cry,  "0  sinnah,  come  an'  lose  yuh  load 
On  de  Glory  Road,  on  de  Glory  Road, 
101 


An*  come  an'  dwell  in  de  Lawd's  abode, 
Glory,  Glory,  on  de  Glory  Road!" 

Sez  de  Lawd,  "No,  simian,  you  mus'  trabbel  back 
Ter  he'p  po'  niggahs  up  de  Glory  Track; 
Ter  he'p  old  mo'ners,  an'  de  scoffin'  coons, 
By  shoutin'  loud  Halleluyah  tunes." 

0  come,  mah  breddren,  won'  you  drap  yuh  load, 
An'  ride  ter  Hebben  up  de  Glory  Road? 

CLEMENT  Woou 

THE  CONQUEROR 

I  HAVE  no  patience  with  the  man  who  says, 

"Another  day  is  gone." 
Give  me  the  man  who  sings  in  thick  of  night, 

"Soon  will  be  dawn!" 

I  have  no  patience  with  the  man  who  holds 

Life  as  a  beggar's  tale, 
Give  me  the  man  with  iron  will  to  climb 

And  courage  not  to  fail. 

He  dies  indeed  who  never  sees  the  sun, 

Nor  hears  the  song  of  rain, 
But  his  is  immortality  on  earth, 

Whose  every  loss  is  gain! 

MORRIS  ABEL  BEER 

102 


STAR  SONG 

THERE  are  twisted  roots  that  grow 

Even  from  a  fragile  white  anemone. 

But  a  star  has  no  roots:  to  and  fro 

It  floats  in  the  light  of  the  sky,  like  a  water-lily, 

And  fades  on  the  blue  flood  of  day. 

A  star  has  no  roots  to  hold  it, 

No  living  lonely  entity  to  lose. 

Floods  of  dim  radiance  fold  it; 

Night  and  day  their  silent  aura  transfuse, 

But  no  change  a  star  can  bruise. 

A  star  is  adrift  and  free. 

When  day  comes,  it  floats  into  space  and  complies; 

Like  a  spirit  quietly, 

Like  a  spirit,  amazed  in  a  wider  paradise 

At  mortal  tears  and  sighs. 

GLADYS  CROMWELL 


THE  MEETING 

THREE  fir  trees  climbing  against  the  sky, 
A  road  that  ran  to  the  top  of  the  world, 

And  a  wind-drenched  tumble  of  bending  rye 
To  the  flaming  ramparts  of  morning  hurled. 
103 


!.*>  t 


The  waters  hurrying  down  to  the  sea 
Met  the  wind  and  the  world  in  flower, 

And  wind  and  waters  made  one  in  me, 
Kept  in  my  heart  an  eternal  hour. 

EDWAKD  J.  O'BRIEN 


DOMINION 

I  WENT  beneath  the  sunny  sky 

When  all  things  bowed  to  June's  desire,  — 
The  pansy  with  its  steadfast  eye, 

The  blue  shells  on  the  lupin  spire, 

The  swelling  fruit  along  the  boughs, 
The  grass  grown  heady  in  the  rain, 

Dark  roses  fitted  for  the  brows 
Of  queens  great  kings  have  sung  hi  vain; 

My  little  cat  with  tiger  bars, 
Bright  claws  all  hidden  in  content; 

Swift  birds  that  flashed  like  darkling  stars 
Across  the  cloudy  continent; 

The  wiry-coated  fellow  curled 

Stump-tailed  upon  the  sunny  flags; 

The  bees  that  sacked  a  coloured  world 
Of  treasure  for  their  honey-bags. 

104 


And  all  these  things  seemed  very  glad, 
The  sun,  the  flowers,  the  birds  on  wing, 

The  jolly  beasts,  the  furry-clad 
Fat  bees,  the  fruit,  and  everything. 

But  gladder  than  them  all  was  I, 
Who,  being  man,  might  gather  up 

The  joy  of  all  beneath  the  sky, 
And  add  their  treasure  to  my  cup, 

And  travel  every  shining  way, 

And  laugh  with  God  in  God's  delight, 

Create  a  world  for  every  day, 
And  store  a  dream  for  every  night. 

JOHN  DEINKWATEB 


A  PINCH  OF  SALT 

WHEN  a  dream  is  born  in  you 

With  a  sudden  clamorous  pain, 
When  you  know  the  dream  is  true 

And  lovely,  with  no  flaw  nor  strain, 
O,  then  be  careful,  or  with  sudden  clutch 
You'll  hurt  the  delicate  thing  you  prize  so  much. 

Dreams  are  like  a  bird  that  mocks, 
Flirting  the  feathers  of  his  tail. 
105 


When  you  seize  at  the  salt-box 

Over  the  hedge  you'll  see  him  sail. 
Old  birds  are  neither  caught  with  salt  nor  chaff : 
They  watch  you  from  the  apple  bough  and  laugh. 

Poet,  never  chase  the  dream. 

Laugh  yourself  and  turn  away. 
Mask  your  hunger,  let  it  seem 

Small  matter  if  he  come  or  stay; 
But  when  he  nestles  in  your  hand  at  last, 
Close  up  your  fingers  tight  and  hold  him  fast. 

ROBERT  GRAVES 


AND  TO  SUCH  AS  PLAY  ONLY  THE  BASS  VIOL 

COULD  we  but  hear  the  music  of  the  days, 
As  that  unfinished  symphony  I  heard  last  night, 
And  see  life's  laborers  as  those  who  played,  — 
Each  taking  his  own  part  religiously, 
Knowing  that  if  he  fails  in  but  one  note 
The  others  can  not  make  the  perfect  thing 
Which  He  the  great  Composer  has  designed! 

I  followed  now  this  player  and  now  that, 
As  each  some  clear-wrought  melody  led  forth, 
Speaking  the  theme  for  all  the  orchestra, 
Which  gave  assent  in  changing  harmonies; 
106 


Or  watched  this  group  now  regnant  and  now  that, 

As  when  one  party  rising,  dominant, 

Bears  bravely  forward  some  great  truth,  and  then 

Another  catches  it  and  takes  it  on 

Till  all  break  forth  in  final  plebiscite. 

But  ever  I  came  back  to  one  who  stood 

Calm  in  the  varying  moods  of  sound  which  swept 

Across  the  stage  that  was  to  me  the  State, 

The  World.  —  His  instrument  could  never  lead; 

Its  range  was  narrow;  and,  when  played  alone, 

It  had  no  voice  to  stir  or  satisfy: 

Only  with  others  had  its  strings  the  power 

To  vibrate  in  immortal  minstrelsy. 

JOHN  FINLET 


EXPECTANS  EXPECTAVI 

FROM  morn  to  midnight,  all  day  through, 
I  laugh  and  play  as  others  do, 
I  sin  and  chatter,  just  the  same 
As  others  with  a  different  name. 

And  all  year  long  upon  the  stage, 
I  dance  and  tumble  and  do  rage 
So  vehemently,  I  scarcely  see 
The  inner  and  eternal  me. 
107 


I  have  a  temple  I  do  not 
Visit,  a  Heart  I  have  forgot, 
A  self  that  I  have  never  met, 
A  secret  shrine  —  and  yet,  and  yet 

This  sanctuary  of  my  soul 
Unwitting  I  keep  white  and  whole, 
Unlatched  and  lit,  if  Thou  should'st  care 
To  enter  or  to  tarry  there. 

With  parted  lips  and  outstretched  hands 
And  listening  ears  Thy  servant  stands, 
Call  Thou  early,  call  Thou  late, 
To  Thy  great  service  dedicate. 

CHARLES  HAMILTON  SORLEY 


THE  GIFTS  OF  PEACE 

ALL  day  long  the  wind  in  the  bending  branches 
Softly  croons  a  chant  for  the  silent  sleepers, 
Through  the  hours  the  birds  in  unceasing  rapture 
Echo  the  wind-song. 

Tossing  branches  caught  by  the  spars  of  sun-glow, 
Framing  bits  of  blue  with  their  leafy  meshes, 
And  upon  the  winds  from  the  pine-tree's  censer 

Attars  unloosened. 

108 


Far  away  the  valley  lies  in  a  day-dream, 

Warm  and  golden,  swept  by  the  clouds'  swift  shadows, 

While  the  grasses  like  distant  ocean  billows 

Drift  in  the  sunshine. 

Here  is  peace  and  loveliness  ever  mingled: 
Organ  music  of  winds  and  birds  and  branches, 
And  a  brooding  Presence  that  makes  each  moment 
A  benediction. 

THOMAS  S.  JONES,  JB. 


PEACE 

PEACE  flows  into  me 

As  the  tide  to  the  pool  by  the  shore; 

It  is  mine  forevermore, 
It  will  not  ebb  like  the  sea. 

I  am  the  pool  of  blue 

That  worships  the  vivid  sky; 

My  hopes  were  heaven-high, 
They  are  all  fulfilled  in  you. 

I  am  the  pool  of  gold 
When  sunset  burns  and  dies  — 
You  are  my  deepening  skies; 

Give  me  your  stars  to  hold. 

SABA  TEASDALE 

109 


STANZAS  FROM  "VARIATIONS" 

You  are  as  beautiful  as  white  clouds 
Flowing  among  bright  stars  at  night: 
You  are  as  beautiful  as  pale  clouds 
Which  the  moon  sets  alight. 

You  are  as  lovely  as  golden  stars 
Which  white  clouds  try  to  brush  away: 
You  are  as  bright  as  golden  stars 
When  they  come  out  to  play. 

You  are  as  glittering  as  those  stairs 
Of  stone  down  which  the  blue  brooks  run: 
You  are  as  shining  as  sea-waves 
All  hastening  to  the  sun. 


CONRAD  AIKEN 


TWILIGHT  CONTENT 

Is  it  the  wind  in  trees  or  waters  falling? 
Is  it  the  canyon-shadows  rushing  down 
The  ridgy  slopes  that  seem  so  to  be  calling 
My  heart  in  twilit  tenderness  to  drown? 

Is  it  the  canyon  wren's  diminuendo 
That  slips  down  a  soft  scale  of  minor  peace? 
Is  it  the  spell  of  night's  lone  wide  crescendo 
Of  mountain  rest  upon  me  —  is  it  these? 

110 


Or  but  some  sense  of  you  I  cannot  measure? 
Some  memory  of  a  wind  of  love  that  blew 
Out  of  your  heart  to  mine?   Some  darkling  pleasure 
In  the  first  shade  of  grief  I  shared  with  you? 

I  cannot  tell.  I  only  know  how  surely 
In  you  —  and  the  world's  beauty  —  I  rejoice. 
The  wren  is  still:  gone  to  her  nest  demurely. 
The  night  has  come  —  yet  silence  is  your  voice. 

GALE  YOUNG  RICE 

TO  ONE  WHO  IS  A  VOICE 

ONLY  a  voice  —  the  wind  among  the  leaves 
Shivered  —  a  wistful,  haunting  melody 

Under  the  lilacs  where  great  drops  of  dew 
Mirrored  the  pale,  star-dusty  evening  sky; 

Was  it  the  wind?  Or  was  it  only  you, 
Dear  distant  friend,  calling  me  from  afar 

Through  the  long  leagues  of  dusk,  remote  and  blue? 

Or  was  it  just  a  star? 

JAMES  L.  McLANE,  JR. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN 

As  a  white  candle 

In  a  holy  place, 
So  is  the  beauty 

Of  an  aged  face. 
ill 


As  the  spent  radiance 

Of  the  winter  sun, 
So  is  a  woman 

With  her  travail  done, 

Her  brood  gone  from  her, 

And  her  thoughts  as  still 
As  the  waters 
Under  a  ruined  mill. 

JOSEPH  CAMPBELL 
(Seosamh  MacCathmhaoil) 

OUT  OF  THE  DEEP 

AT  the  hour  when  the  stars  from  the  eastern  spaces  are  peering, 
I  stood  on  the  cliffs  that  look  on  the  sea,  and  strode 

Alone  and  laughing  with  pride  in  the  squall's  careering 
To  feel  my  blood  leap  up  at  the  tempest's  goad. 

At  the  base  of  the  cliffs  there  was  thunder  of  waves  defeated; 

I  measured  the  spaces  of  western  sky  whereon 
A  sunbeam  flamed  farewell  as  the  sun  retreated 

And  over  the  waters  its  waning  glory  shone. 

I  leant  by  a  rocky  wall  smooth-hewn  and  salted 

By  the  immemorial  sprays  of  the  endless  tide, 
Like  a  cross  on  the  brink  of  a  lonely  pit,  exalted 

I  clasped  all  space  as  I  held  my  arms  out  wide. 

112 


And  my  full  heart  beat  with  the  heart  of  the  world's  wide  bosom, 
The  sea's  salt  out  of  the  sea  my  strong  veins  drew; 

I  felt  my  body  within  me  grow  quick  and  blossom 
With  seed  of  stars  that  the  winnowing  night  let  through. 

I  wanted  to  moan  more  loud  than  the  ocean  thunders, 

To  breathe  out  my  being  in  air  like  the  tempest  wrack; 
And,  death  o'er-leapt,  feel  the  sacred  ardour  that  sunders 
The  soul  from  self  that  again  unto  God  goes  back. 

CHARLES  GUERIN 
(Translated  by  Wilfred  Thorky) 

THE  JOURNEY 

WHAT  matter  where  the  Apple  grows? 
True  heroes  never  count  the  miles. 
The  journey  leads  to  where  it  leads  — 
Sargasso  or  the  Western  Isles. 

No  one  place  holds  the  dreams  of  all. 
Earth  wears  a  multi-colored  robe, 
And  there  are  new  Hesperides 
In  every  corner  of  the  globe. 

Some  find  the  fruit  like  Hercules  — 
For  such  the  moon  and  sun  may  stop; 
Yet  never  doubt  that  Sisyphus 
Achieved  at  last  the  mountain  top. 

SCUDDER  MlDDLETON 
113 


LIVE  THY  LIFE 

LIVE  thy  life  gallantly  and  undismayed: 
Whatever  harms  may  hide  within  the  shade, 
Be  thou  of  fear,  my  spirit!  more  afraid. 

In  earthly  pathways  evil  springeth  rife; 

But  dread  not  thou,  too  much,  or  pain  or  strife 

That  plunge  thee  to  the  greater  depths  of  life! 

What  though  the  storm-cloud  holds  the  bolt  that  sears? 
The  eagle  of  the  crag,  that  nothing  fears, 
Still,  still  is  young  after  an  hundred  years! 

FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 


THE  SUPERMAN 

HE  will  come; 

I  know  not  when,  or  how; 

But  he  will  walk  breast-high  with  God,  stepping  among  the  stars. 

Clothed  in  light  and  crowned  with  glory  he  will  stride  down  the 

Milky  Way, 
Creating  with  a  thought,  building  with  a  word. 

A  hundred  million  ages  it  may  be  until  he  comes;  what  does  it 
matter? 

Consider  the  deliberate  stars  —  how  eternity  waits  their  fulfil 
ments. 

114 


A  hundred  million  ages,  and  yet,  sometimes, 

Here  and  now,  in  these  small,  primeval  days  —  in  this  dull 
gloaming  of  creation's  dawn  — 

Here  and  now,  sometimes,  there  crackles  out  a  tiny  shimmer 
ing  spark, 

Some  hint  in  our  blind,  protoplasmic  lives, 

Of  that  far,  infinite  torch 

Whose  ray  shall  one  day  touch  the  utmost  reaches  of  space 

Where  life  is  born. 

One  that  has  made  brotherhood  with  the  eagle  and  the 

hawk; 

One  that  has  made  voices  speak  across  the  emptiness; 
One  that  has  laid  cheer  and  comfort  to  the  tired  heart  — 
These  and  a  thousand  others  are  the  prophecy: 
These  tell  of  the  day 
When  the  poor  expedient  of  birth  and  the  sorry  trouble  of 

dying  have  been  dismissed, 

And  all  the  sad  adventures  of  the  body  are  long  forgot. 
Walking  as  angels  walk,  but  greater  than  the  angels, 
He  that  will  come  will  know  not  space  nor  time,  nor  any 

limitation, 
But  will  step  across  the  sky,  infinite,  supreme  —  one  with 

God. 

ALBERT  BIGELOW  PAINE 


115 


JAPANESE  HOKKUS 

To  face  only  the  sky  and  forget  the  land, 
Oh,  to  become  a  rider  of  the  winds! 

What  a  joy  to  find  a  greater  song  amid  the  clouds! 

At  eve, 

By  a  grass-made  hut, 

The  winds  pass  on, 

Saying  something  to  the  rice-plant  leaves. 

I  am  knocking  at  the  door  of  Life,  — 
Is  nobody  in? 

The  voice  falls  like  a  dream, 
Across  the  light  of  forgetfulness. 

Eternity  rolled  in  love, 

Bids  the  visible  world  to  sing. 

Is  there  anything  new  under  the  sun? 

Certainly  there  is. 

See  how  a  bird  flies,  how  flowers  smile! 

YOKE  NOGUCHI 


116 


A  FLEMISH  MADONNA 

HERE  is  no  golden-crowned,  celestial  queen 
Such  as  Angelico  would  fitly  paint, 
With  pink-white  cheek  and  haloed  smile  serene, 
Enringed  by  many  a  cherub,  many  a  saint. 
This  is  a  peasant  woman  worn  by  toil, 
Her  cheeks  are  hollow  as  with  child-bed's  trace; 
A  poor,  plain  creature  of  the  common  soil, 
Yet  wearing  godhead  on  her  earnest  face. 
Well  have  you  wrought,  good  painter,  that  could  show 
So  pure  a  spirit  in  so  rude  a  shrine. 
The  dullest  soul  that  looks  on  this  will  know 
That  motherhood  has  loveliness  divine. 
What  greater  power  than  this  has  brush  or  pen: 
To  bring  the  thought  of  God  to  simple  men? 

CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 


BROTHERHOOD 

IF  you  want  to  find  your  brothers,  find  yourself  . .  . 
You  are  not  a  person;  you  are  a  race  . 

What  we  see  of  you  is  a  ray  of  light  emanating  from  the  hidden 

skies  within  you  .  .  . 
In  those  skies  humanity  dwells  .  .  . 
Enter  them;  find  your  brothers  .  .  . 

117 


You  shall  find  infinite  love: 

You  shall  be  all  you  see: 

Communion  with  the  grass  and  the  sea-waves  shall  be  no  harder 

than  with  human  beings  . . . 
St.  Francis  knew  this:  preaching  to  the  birds. 

Not  alone  in  division  of  food  and  comfort, 

Not  alone  in  bare  Justice  (long  needed,  the  unescapable  duty  of 

our  age) 
Not  in  these  only  shall  Brotherhood  come  . .  . 

No,  not  until  you  go  the  ancient  way; 

Way  of  Buddha,  Jesus  and  Isaiah, 

The  long  long  journey  farther  than  sun  from  earth, 

(So  near,  such  heavens  away)  to  your  own  Soul, 

Shall  dawn  benign  Brotherhood. 

JAMES  OPPENHEIM 

WHEN  PETER  JACKSON  PREACHED 
IN  THE  OLD  CHURCH 

To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  the  old  Negro  Spiritual, 
"  Every  time  I  feel  the  spirit  moving  in  my  heart  I  'II  pray" 

PETER  JACKSON  was  a-preaching 
And  the  house  was  still  as  snow. 
He  whispered  of  repentance 
And  the  lights  were  dim  and  low 
And  were  almost  out 
When  he  gave  the  first  shout: 

118 


"  Arise,  arise, 

Cry  out  your  eyes." 

And  we  mourned  all  our  terrible  sins  away. 

Clean,  clean  away. 

Then  we  marched  around,  around, 

And  sang  with  a  wonderful  sound:  — 

"Every  time  I  feel  the  spirit  moving  in  my 

heart  I  '11  pray. 
Every  time  I  feel  the  spirit  moving  in  my 

heart  I'll  pray." 
And  we  fell  by  the  altar 
And  fell  by  the  aisle, 
And  found  our  Savior 
In  just  a  little  while, 

We  all  found  Jesus  at  the  break  of  the  day, 
We  all  found  Jesus  at  the  break  of  the  day. 
Blessed  Jesus, 

Blessed  Jesus. 

VACHEL  LINDSAY 


"AS  WHEN  SAINT  FRANCIS  WALKED  THE  WAYS 
OF  EARTH" 

As  when  Saint  Francis  walked  the  ways  of  earth 
And  preached  the  simple  beauty  of  God's  word, 

Angel  of  Love  to  man  and  flower  and  bird 
Alike,  so  to  the  long,  self-fostered  dearth 

119 


Within  my  spirit,  from  your  soul  to  mine, 

As  the  cool  greenness  in  the  heart  of  rain 
Quenches  the  thirst  of  meadows  parched  with  pain, 

Came  on  strong  wings  of  faith  a  breath  divine. 
Pilgrim  of  Beauty,  I  who  sought  alone 

In  the  chill  hearts  of  stars,  and  found  not  grace, 
Knew  at  your  word  that  I  could  still  atone  — 

Beheld  through  crumbling  mists  of  right  and  wrong, 
Lifted  before  the  Silence  of  His  face, 

The  Grail  of  Beauty  and  the  Wine  of  Song. 

JAMES  L.  McLANE,  JR. 


THE  BIRDS 

WITHIN  mankind's  duration,  so  they  say, 

Krephren  and  Ninus  lived  but  yesterday. 

Asia  had  no  name  till  man  was  old 

And  long  had  learned  the  use  of  iron  and  gold; 

And  »ons  had  passed,  when  the  first  corn  was  planted, 

Since  first  the  use  of  syllables  was  granted. 

Men  were  on  earth  while  climates  slowly  swung, 
Fanning  wide  zones  to  heat  and  cold,  and  long 
Subsidence  turned  great  continents  to  sea, 
And  seas  dried  up,  dried  up  interminably, 
Age  after  age;  enormous  seas  were  dried 
Amid  wastes  of  land.  And  the  last  monsters  died. 
120 


Earth  wore  another  face.  0  since  that  prime 
Man  with  how  many  works  has  sprinkled  time! 
Hammering,  hewing,  digging  tunnels,  roads; 
Building  ships,  temples,  multiform  abodes. 
How,  for  his  body's  appetites,  his  toils 
Have  conquered  all  earth's  products,  all  her  soils; 
And  in  what  thousand  thousand  shapes  of  art 
He  has  tried  to  find  a  language  for  his  heart! 

Never  at  rest,  never  content  or  tired: 

Insatiate  wanderer,  marvellously  fired, 

Most  grandly  piling  and  piling  into  the  air 

Stones  that  will  topple  or  arch  he  knows  not  where. 

And  yet  did  I,  this  spring,  think  it  more  strange, 

More  grand,  more  full  of  awe,  than  all  that  change, 

And  lovely  and  sweet  and  touching  unto  tears, 

That  through  man's  chronicled  and  unchronicled  years, 

And  even  into  that  unguessable  beyond 

The  water-hen  has  nested  by  a  pond, 

Weaving  dry  flags  into  a  beaten  floor, 

The  one  sure  product  of  her  only  lore. 

Low  on  a  ledge  above  the  shadowed  water 

Then,  when  she  heard  no  men,  as  nature  taught  her, 

Plashing  around  with  busy  scarlet  bill 

She  built  that  nest,  her  nest,  and  builds  it  still. 

121 


O  let  your  strong  imagination  turn 

The  great  wheel  backward,  until  Troy  unburn, 

And  then  unbuild,  and  seven  Troys  below 

Rise  out  of  death,  and  dwindle,  and  outflow, 

Till  all  have  passed,  and  none  has  yet  been  there: 

Back,  ever  back.  Our  birds  still  crossed  the  air; 

Beyond  our  myriad  changing  generations 

Still  built,  unchanged,  their  known  inhabitations. 

A  million  years  before  Atlantis  was 

Our  lark  sprang  from  some  hollow  in  the  grass, 

Some  old  soft  hoof-print  in  a  tussock's  shade; 

And  the  wood-pigeon's  smooth  snow-white  eggs  were 

laid, 

High  amid  green  pine's  sunset-coloured  shafts, 
And  rooks  their  villages  of  twiggy  rafts 
Set  on  the  tops  of  elms,  where  elms  grew  then, 
And  still  the  thumbling  tit  and  perky  wren 
Popped  through  the  tiny  doors  of  cosy  balls 
And  the  blackbird  lined  with  moss  his  high-built  walls; 
A  round  mud  cottage  held  the  thrush's  young, 
And  straws  from  the  untidy  sparrow's  hung. 
And,  skimming  forktailed  in  the  evening  air, 
When  man  first  was  were  not  the  martens  there? 
Did  not  those  birds  some  human  shelter  crave, 
And  stow  beneath  the  cornice  of  his  cave 
Their  dry  tight  cups  of  clay?  And  from  each  door 
Peeped  on  a  morning  wiseheads  three  or  four. 
122 


Yes,  daw  and  owl,  curlew  and  crested  hern, 
Kingfisher,  mallard,  water-rail  and  tern, 
Chaffinch  and  greenfinch,  wagtail,  stonechat,  ruff, 
Pied  warbler,  robin,  fly-catcher  and  chough, 
Missel-thrush,  magpie,  sparrow-hawk  and  jay, 
Built,  those  far  ages  gone,  in  this  year's  way. 
And  the  first  man  who  walked  the  cliffs  of  Rome, 
As  I  this  year,  looked  down  and  saw  the  same 
Blotches  of  rusty  red  on  ledge  and  cleft 
With  grey-green  spots  on  them,  while  right  and  left 
A  dizzying  tangle  of  gulls  were  floating  and  flying, 
Wheeling  and  crossing  and  darting,  crying  and  crying, 
Circling  and  crying,  over  and  over  and  over, 
Crying  with  swoop  and  hover  and  fall  and  recover. 
And  below  on  a  rock  against  the  grey  sea  fretted, 
Pipe-necked  and  stationary  and  silhouetted, 
Cormorants  stood  in  a  wise,  black,  equal  row 
Above  the  nests  and  long  blue  eggs  we  know. 

O  delicate  chain  over  all  the  ages  stretched, 
O  dumb  tradition  from  what  far  darkness  fetched: 
Each  little  architect  with  its  one  design 
Perpetual,  fixed  and  right  in  stuff  and  line, 
Each  little  ministrant  who  knows  one  thing, 
One  learned  rite  to  celebrate  the  spring. 
Whatever  alters  else  on  sea  and  shore, 
These  are  unchanging:  man  must  still  explore. 

J.  C.  SQUIRE 

123 


TO  THE  MODERN  MAN 

FROM  mysteries  of  the  Past 

The  Future  is  prophesied. 
The  Actual  comes  and  goes 

Like  shadows  on  a  tide. 

Realities  come  and  go 

Like  shadows  on  a  pool,  — 
The  leaves  are  for  the  wise  man, 

The  shadows  for  the  fool. 

Out  of  the  moment  Now 

Rises  the  god  To-Be, 
The  light  upon  his  brow 

Is  from  eternity. 

Leave  dreaming  to  the  fool 

And  take  things  as  they  are; 
All  things  are  in  yourself, 

Who  stand  upon  a  star 

And  look  upon  the  stars, 

And  yearn  with  deepening  breath  — 
All  things  are  in  yourself  — 

Love  and  Life  and  Death. 

JOHN  HALL  WHEELOCK 

124 


NEIGHBORS 

LET  me  have  faith,  is  what  I  pray, 

And  let  my  faith  be  strong!  — 
But  who  am  I,  is  what  I  say, 

To  think  my  neighbor  wrong? 

And  though  my  neighbor  may  deny 

True  faith  could  be  so  slight, 
May  call  me  wrong,  yet  who  am  I 

To  think  my  neighbor  right? 

We  may  discover  by  and  by 

Making  our  wisdom  double, 
That  he  is  right  and  so  am  I  — 

And  save  a  lot  of  trouble. 

WITTER  BYNNER 

MAN-MAKING 

WE  all  are  blind  until  we  see 

That  in  the  human  plan 
Nothing  is  worth  the  making  if 

It  does  not  make  the  man. 

Why  build  these  cities  glorious 

If  man  unbuilded  goes? 
In  vain  we  build  the  world,  unless 

The  builder  also  grows. 

EDWIN  MARKHAM 

125 


A  MAN 
(FOB  MY  FATHER) 

I  LISTENED  to  them  talking,  talking, 

That  tableful  of  keen  and  clever  folk, 

Sputtering  .  .  .  followed  by  a  pale  and  balking 

Sort  of  flash  whenever  some  one  spoke; 

Like  musty  fireworks  or  a  pointless  joke, 

Followed  by  a  pointless,  musty  laughter.  Then 

Without  a  pause,  the  sputtering  once  again  .  . . 

The  air  was  thick  with  epigrams  and  smoke; 

And  underneath  it  all 

It  seemed  that  furtive  things  began  to  crawl, 

Hissing  and  striking  in  the  dark, 

Aiming  at  no  particular  mark, 

And  careless  whom  they  hurt. 

The  petty  jealousies,  the  smiling  hates 

Shot  forth  their  venom  as  they  passed  the  plates, 

And  hissed  and  struck  again,  aroused,  alert; 

Using  their  feeble  smartness  as  a  screen 

To  shield  their  poisonous  stabbing,  to  divert 

From  what  was  cowardly  and  black  and  mean. 

Then  I  thought  of  you, 
Your  gentle  soul, 
Your  large  and  quiet  kindness; 
Ready  to  caution  and  console, 
126 


And,  with  an  almost  blindness 

To  what  was  mean  and  low. 

Baseness  you  never  knew; 

You  could  not  think  that  falsehood  was  untrue, 

Nor  that  deceit  would  ever  dare  betray  you. 

You  even  trusted  treachery;  and  so, 

Guileless,  what  guile  or  evil  could  dismay  you? 

You  were  for  counsels  rather  than  commands. 

Your  sweetness  was  your  strength,  your  strength  a  sweetness 

That  drew  all  men,  and  made  reluctant  hands 

Rest  long  upon  your  shoulder. 

Firm,  but  never  proud, 

You  walked  your  sixty  years  as  through  a  crowd 

Of  friends  who  loved  to  feel  your  warmth,  and  who 

Knowing  that  warmth,  knew  you. 

Even  the  casual  beholder 

Could  see  your  fresh  and  generous  completeness, 

Like  dawn  in  a  deep  forest,  growing  and  shining  through. 

Such  faith  has  soothed  and  armed  you.    It  has  smiled 

Frankly  and  unashamed  at  Death;  and,  like  a  child, 

Swayed  half  by  joy  and  half  by  reticence, 

Walking  beside  its  nurse,  you  walk  with  Life; 

Protected  by  your  smile  and  an  immense 

Security  and  simple  confidence. 

Hearing  the  talkers  talk,  I  thought  of  you  .  . . 
And  it  was  like  a  great  wind  blowing 
127 


Over  confused  and  poisonous  places. 

It  was  like  sterile  spaces 

Crowded  with  birds  and  grasses,  soaked  clear  through 

With  sunlight,  quiet  and  vast  and  clean. 

And  it  was  forests  growing, 

And  it  was  black  things  turning  green. 

And  it  was  laughter  on  a  thousand  faces  .  .  . 

It  was,  like  victory  rising  from  defeat, 

The  world  made  well  again  and  strong  —  and  sweet. 

Louis  UNTERMEYER 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  FRIEND  JOYCE  KILMER 
POET  AND  SOLDIER 

I  HEAR  a  thousand  chimes, 
I  hear  ten  thousand  chimes, 
I  hear  a  million  chimes 
In  Heaven. 
I  see  a  thousand  bells, 
I  see  ten  thousand  bells, 
I  see  a  million  bells 
In  Heaven. 

Listen,  friends  and  companions. 
Through  the  deep  heart, 
Sweetly  they  toll. 
128 


I  hear  the  chimes 
Of  tomorrow  ring, 
The  azure  bells 
Of  eternal  love  .  . . 
I  see  the  chimes 
Of  tomorrow  swing: 
On  unseen  ropes 
They  gleam  above. 

Rejoice,  friends  and  companions. 
Through  the  deep  heart 
Sweetly  they  toll. 

They  shake  the  sky, 
They  blaze  and  sing. 
They  fill  the  air 
Like  larks  a-wing, 
Like  storm-clouds 
Turned  to  blue-bell  flowers. 
Like  Spring  gone  mad, 
Like  stars  in  showers. 

Join  the  song, 
Friends  and  companions. 
Through  the  deep  heart 
Sweetly  they  toll. 

129 


And  some  are  near, 
And  touch  my  hand, 
Small  whispering  blooms 
From  Beulah  Land. 
Giants  afar 
Still  touch  the  sky, 
Still  give  their  giant 
Battle-cry. 

Join  hands,  friends  and  companions. 
Through  the  deep  heart 
Sweetly  they  toll. 

And  every  bell 

Is  voice  and  breath 

Of  a  spirit 

Who  has  conquered  death, 

In  this  great  war 

Has  given  all, 

Like  Kilmer 

Heard  the  hero-call. 

Join  hands, 

Poets, 

Friends, 

Companions. 

Through  the  deep  heart 

Sweetly  they  toll! 

VACHEL  LINDSAY 

130 


AFTER  GRIEVING 

WHEN  I  was  young  I  was  so  sad! 

I  was  so  sad!  I  did  not  know 
Why  any  living  thing  was  glad 
When  one  must  some  day  sorrow  so. 
But  now  when  grief  has  come  to  me 
My  heart  is  like  a  bird  set  free. 

I  always  knew  that  it  would  come; 

I  always  felt  it  waiting  there; 
Its  shadow  kept  my  glad  voice  dumb 
And  crushed  my  gay  soul  with  despair. 
But  now  that  I  have  lived  with  grief 
I  feel  an  exquisite  relief. 

Athletes  who  know  their  proven  strength, 
Ships  that  have  shamed  the  hurricane: 
These  are  my  brothers,  and  at  length 
I  shall  come  back  to  joy  again. 
However  hard  my  life  may  be 
I  know  it  shall  not  conquer  me. 


ALINE  KILMER 


TO  THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

DEAR  little  house,  dear  shabby  street, 
Dear  books  and  beds  and  food  to  eat ! 
How  feeble  words  are  to  express 
The  facets  of  your  tenderness. 
131 


How  white  the  sun  comes  through  the  pane! 
In  tinkling  music  drips  the  rain! 
How  burning  bright  the  furnace  glows! 
What  paths  to  shovel  when  it  snows! 

0  dearly  loved  Long  Island  trains! 
O  well  remembered  joys  and  pains. 
How  near  the  housetops  Beauty  leans 
Along  that  little  street  in  Queens! 

Let  these  poor  rhymes  abide  for  proof 
Joy  dwells  beneath  a  humble  roof; 
Heaven  is  not  built  of  country  seats 
But  little  queer  suburban  streets! 

CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 


THE  SACRAMENT  OF  FIRE 

KNEEL  always  when  you  light  a  fire! 
Kneel  reverently,  and  thankful  be 
For  God's  unfailing  charity, 
And  on  the  ascending  flame  inspire 
A  little  prayer,  that  shall  upbear 
The  incense  of  your  thankfulness 
For  this  sweet  grace 
Of  warmth  and  light! 
132 


For  here  again  is  sacrifice 
For  your  delight. 

Within  the  wood, 

That  lived  a  joyous  life 

Through  sunny  days  and  rainy  days 

And  winter  storms  and  strife;  — 

Within  the  peat, 

That  drank  the  sweet, 

The  moorland  sweet 

Of  bracken,  whin,  and  sweet  bell-heather, 

And  knew  the  joy  of  gold  gorse  feather 

Flaming  like  Love  in  wintriest  weather,  — 

While  snug  below,  in  sun  and  snow, 

It  heard  the  beat  of  the  padding  feet 

Of  foal  and  dam,  and  ewe  and  lamb, 

And  the  stamp  of  old  bell-wether;  — 

Within  the  coal, 

Where  forests  lie  entombed,  — 

Oak,  elm,  and  chestnut,  beech,  and  red  pine  bole; 

God  shrined  His  sunshine,  and  enwombed 

For  you  these  stores  of  light  and  heat, 

Your  life-joys  to  complete. 

These  all  have  died  that  you  might  live; 

Yours  now  the  high  prerogative 

To  loose  their  long  captivities, 

133 


And  through  these  new  activities 

A  wider  life  to  give. 

Kneel  always  when  you  light  a  fire! 

Kneel  reverently, 

And  grateful  be 

For  God's  unfailing  charity! 

JOHN  OXENHAM 


SONNET 

LET  me  be  glad,  let  me  be  glad;  arise 
My  heart,  and  praise  the  Giver  of  good  things. 
His  angel  came,  with  healing  on  his  wings, 
He  came  and  laid  his  hand  upon  my  eyes, 
And  there  was  benediction  in  the  skies, 
And  wondrous  pharmacies  in  mountain  springs, 
And  psalms  of  praise  in  all  their  murmurings, 
And  in  the  mountains  help.  Therefore  arise 
My  heart,  and  praise  the  Lord  of  all  delight; 
The  Lord  of  all  delight  who  gave  thee  this, 
The  Lord  who  taught  thee  what  His  worship  is; 
And,  when  the  magic  hour  has  passed  away, 
Through  the  long  watches  of  the  silent  night 
Thou  shalt  remember  what  has  been  to-day. 

SIR  CECIL  ARTHUR  SPRING-RICE 


134 


A  BIRTHNIGHT  CANDLE 

A  CANDLE,  waiter!  Thank  you.  No,  't  is  not 

To  light  a  cigarette.  I  wish  its  flame 

For  better  use.  A  little  nearer,  please, 

For  if  the  guests  should  see,  they'd  wonder  —  well, 

But  you  do  know  that  I  have  touched  no  wine 

This  hallowed  night,  this  night  the  lad  was  born.  — 

The  brilliant  banquet-hall  of  myriad  lamps 
Will  not  deny  me  this  one  little  blaze 
From  all  its  dazzling  wealth  to  celebrate 
His  natal  festival. 

Do  you  perchance, 

Not  have  this  custom,  gargon,  in  old  France, 
Of  lighting  candles  on  a  birthday  cake, 
And  quenching  then  each  flame  with  some  fond  wish? 
Well,  I  have  said  that  whereso'er  this  night 
O'ertook  me  exiled  from  his  happy  face, 
I  'd  blow  a  candle  out  with  such  desire 
As  could  have  speech  but  in  a  lambent  flame 
Piercing  the  mystery  of  space  about.  — 
The  night  has  found  me  guest  at  this  high  feast, 
Companioned  of  famed  men,  but  with  my  thought 
Ever  of  him  and  her  who  gave  him  birth. 
.135 


And  here's  the  candle!  —  For  some  holy  rite 

'T  was  doubtless  fashioned,  and  by  hands  that  moved 

In  rhythm  with  some  sweet  song,  molding  the  wax 

Distilled  by  bees  that  roamed  through  flowered  fields 

In  drowsy  summer  afternoons,  to  store 

The  precious  fires  from  out  the  skies,  and  then 

To  give  them  perfume  of  the  fragrant  earth. 

There!  It  has  gone,  and  never  light  since  God 
Divided  day  from  dark  has  borne  a  prayer 
More  ardent  than  this  wish  for  him  whose  name 
I,  bearing,  vow  anew  to  keep  from  stain. 


Put  back  the  candle  in  its  golden  cup. 
No,  thank  you,  waiter;  no  liqueur  for  me. 
But  just  a  little  coffee.  Yes,  two  lumps. 
(The  smoke  is  getting  in  my  eyes.) 

That's  all. 

JOHN  FINLET 


THE  HOME-LAND 

IT'S  a  certain  voice,  it's  the  sound 
Of  a  bell  in  a  distant  tower, 
It's  sunlight  on  the  ground 
Through  trees  or  after  a  shower, 
136 


It's  a  certain  roof  under  a  certain  sky, 

The  fragrance  of  the  path  of  a  certain  street, 

A  steeple  with  a  farm  kneeling  nearby, 

The  feeling  of  the  grass  under  the  feet, 

The  flash  of  a  look,  the  faltering  of  a  hand, 

A  something  from  the  past  too  quick  to  understand, 

It's  what  one  feels  and  cannot  say 

Even  when  one  sings, 

Though  that's  the  nearest  way  — 

It's  all  those  things. 

It's  what  one  tastes  and  sees, 

It's  what  one  breathes  and  hears, 

It's  a  smoke,  it's  melodies, 

Bright  leaves,  a  wind  that  veers, 

The  common  sights  and  sounds, 

Dogs  barking,  people  greeting, 

A  mug  of  ale  that  pounds  and  pounds 

A  table  at  some  meeting, 

It 's  what  one  feels  and  cannot  say 

Even  when  one  sings, 

Though  that's  the  nearest  way  — 

It's  all  those  things. 

It's  the  body's  very  best, 
It's  the  heart-beat  in  the  side 
For  children  at  the  breast, 
It's  remembering  those  who  died, 
137 


It's  the  ardor  of  the  way, 

It's  the  savor  of  the  song, 

It's  the  dream,  aching  to  stay, 

And  the  passion,  to  belong, 

The  sower's  will  to  reap, 

The  lover's  will  to  keep, 

It's  what  one  feels  and  cannot  say 

Even  when  one  sings, 

Though  that 's  the  nearest  way  — 

It's  all  those  things. 

WITTER  BYNNEB 
(From  the  French  of  Smile  Cammaerts) 

NOSTALGIA 

GIVE  me  my  old  coat  again 
That  I  have  worn  through  many  days  of  rain, 
Whose  hue  is  varied,  ripened  by  the  sun 
To  subtle  patterns;  give  me  one 
Of  my  old  books  to  read  by  firelight  half  asleep, 
Whose  effaced  memories  leave  gaps  of  deep 
Conjecture  over  thoughts  that  lie  in  rest 
Beneath  their  placid  linen.  Let  the  blest 
White  hands  of  silence  touch  me,  and  the  white 
Cool  hands  of  rivers  soothing  through  the  night 
Into  the  hands  of  tranced  sleepers  —  hands 
Reminiscent,  binding  me  with  scented  bands. 
138 


The  wake  of  clouds  shall  touch  me  whose  pale  ships 

Pass  suavely  over;  let  the  whispering  lips 

Of  twilight  tell  me  of  dead  loves  and  legend  glories, 

And  let  these  flames  unscroll  their  golden  stories 

And  fold  them  with  the  pinch  of  dusty  fingers. 

Ah,  in  this  darkness  many  a  sunset  lingers, 

And  many  a  dream  within  this  dozing, 

Things  slow  revealed  and  dimly  closing. 

Give  me  my  old  town  again 

That  I  have  watched  through  ghostly  scarvesiof  rain, 

Through  fringes  of  pale  lights,  and  let  me  see 

Her  streets  that  wound  into  my  brain  so  stealthily 

That  I  hear  yet  the  chant  of  them  that  roars 

Along  their  blinded  spectral  corridors. 

Give  my  old  joy  and  wonder  back  again, 

The  adolescent  loveliness  of  pain; 

But  let  me  touch  them  now,  and  know  and  bless 

With  this  new  love  and  dawning  tenderness. 

IBIS  TREE 


ALMS 

I  MET  Poor  Sorrow  on  the  way 
As  I  came  down  the  years; 

I  gave  him  everything  I  had 

And  looked  at  him  through  tears. 
139 


"  But  Sorrow,  give  me  here  again 

Some  little  sign  to  show; 
For  I  have  given  all  I  own; 

Yet  have  I  far  to  go." 

Then  Sorrow  charmed  my  eyes  for  me 

And  hallowed  them  thus  far: 
"  Look  deep  enough  in  every  dark, 

And  you  shall  see  the  star." 

JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODT 


LYRICAL  EPIGRAMS 

MY  little  old  dog: 
A  heart-beat 
At  my  feet. 

SPRING 

A  Winter  wind, 
Primroses, 
And  the  new  furrow. 

FRIENDSHIP 

The  silence  of  midnight, 

A  dying  fire, 

And  the  best  unsaid.  .  .  . 

EDITH  WHARTON 

140 


DRIFTWOOD 

LIFE  gave  me  these  — 

The  beauty  that  can  only  branch  in  trees 

Who  are  content,  knowing  the  roots'  securities  — 

The  strength  to  stand  up  straight  and  bear  the  wings 

Of  a  brave  ship  on  her  adventurings  — 

The  bitterness  of  being  broken,  being  tossed 

And  driven  on  the  waters  and  the  winds  and  lost 

In  desolation,  mist  and  stinging  foam, 

And  being  beaten  back  at  last  to  home. 

Now  Love  has  kindled  me  — 
Strange  that  my  beauty  of  a  dear,  green  tree 
Should  vanish  into  smoke  and  memory, 
Strange  that  the  strength,  magnificently  mine, 
Should  fall  before  the  flame  without  a  sign  — 
But  oh  most  strange  that  bitterness  should  be 
Drawn  up  in  color  after  color  out  of  me! 

WINIFRED  WELLES 


CANDLE-LIGHTING  SONG 

I  HAVE  three  candles  in  my  room 
Slender  and  long  and  white, 
Their  tips  are  buds  of  fire  bloom 
That  blossom  every  night. 
141 


And  one  I  light  for  memory, 
All  steady  as  a  star; 
And  one  burns  clear  for  days  to  be, 
And  one  for  days  that  are. 

I  have  three  candles  in  my  room 
Slender  and  tall  and  fair; 
And  every  one  a  fire  bloom, 
And  every  one  a  prayer. 

ARTHUR  KETCHUM 


TO  BROWNING,  THE  MUSIC  MASTER 

OH,  I  once  was  a  lad 

Of  a  single  thought, 

Melody-mad, 

With  ears  for  nought 

But  the  miracles  Bach  and  Beethoven  wrought, 

When  suddenly  you, 

Out  of  the  blue, 

With  your  formal  old  master  Galuppi,  dropped, 

And  grim-eyed  Hugues 

Of  the  mountainous  fugues, 

And  the  rampired  walls  of  the  marvelous  Abt,  — 

To  build  me,  from  Music's  far-off  strand, 

A  way  to  a  humaner,  dearer  shore  — 

A  bridge  to  poetry-land. 

142 


Then  to  my  soul  I  swore: 
'If  poets  may  win  such  store 
Of  music's  own  highland  air, 
Yet  abide  in  the  common  round, 
Transmuting  man's  dusty  ground 
To  gems  for  the  world  to  wear  — 
Theirs  too  is  a  priceless  art,  — 
Is  a  thing  that  I  fain  would  share  — 
A  thing  that  is  near  to  my  heart!" 

Thus  were  a  young  soul's  ears  unstopped 

By  Galuppi  and  Hugues  and  the  marvelous  Abt, 

Who  bridged  a  way  for  ignorant  feet 

And  parted  wide  for  wondering  eyes 

The  port  of  a  second  paradise; 

Showing  how  right  it  is,  and  meet 

That  a  Schubert's  voice  may  never  repeat, 

With  the  self-same  thought  and  the  self-same  beat, 

Measures  a  Milton's  lips  have  dropped;  — 

That  music  waxes  where  poesy  wanes, 

And,  with  thirsty  lips  to  poesy's  veins, 

Grows  by  her  want,  by  her  wasting,  gains. 

For  music,  the  protean,  is  this,  and  this: 
The  rainbow's  shimmer  of  love's  first  bliss, 
A  despairing  gesture,  a  dream-like  whim, 
The  down  on  the  plumes  of  the  Cherubim, 
143 


The  body  of  Ariel,  lissom  and  fresh  — 

Too  subtle  for  poesy's  golden  mesh  — 

An  exquisite,  evanescent  shape 

That  "breaks  through  language"  to  escape 

To  the  bourne  of  that  country,  brighter,  vaster, 

Where  now  you  are  singing,  dear  Music  Master. 

ROBERT  HAVEN  SCHAUFFLEB 

MOONLIGHT  IN  THE  BIRCH  WOOD 

ALONG  the  path  where  lights  and  shadows  stream 
The  birches  in  their  silver  armour  gleam  — 
Each  tree  as  on  parade,  so  straight  and  tall; 
The  moon  with  magic  fire  is  prodigal, 
And  strangely  unfamiliar  all  things  grow. 

Most  spirit-like  the  wood  is,  with  that  shade 
Of  sadness  —  such  as  ever  doth  pervade 
All  loveliest  things;  while  a  soft  purple  haze 
Lends  mystery  to  little  hidden  ways 
Portalled  with  laurel  leaves  that  gleam  like  snow. 

So  deep  it  is,  the  stillness  of  the  wood, 
The  soul  in  perfect  peace  may  dream  or  brood 
On  all  the  fancies  that  could  once  beguile  — 
And  slip  again,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  smile, 
Into  some  faerie  world  of  long  ago. 

ANTOINETTE  DECOUBSEY  PATTEBSON 

144 


"THE  FAIRIES  HAVE  NEVER  A  PENNY 
TO  SPEND" 

THE  Fairies  have  never  a  penny  to  spend, 

They  have  n't  a  thing  put  by, 

But  theirs  is  the  dower  of  bird  and  of  flower 

And  theirs  are  the  earth  and  the  sky. 

And  though  you  should  live  in  a  palace  of  gold 

Or  sleep  in  a  dried-up  ditch, 

You  could  never  be  poor  as  the  fairies  are, 

And  never  as  rich. 

Since  ever  and  ever  the  world  began 

They  have  danced  like  a  ribbon  of  flame, 

They  have  sung  their  song  through  the  centuries  long 

And  yet  it  is  never  the  same. 

And  though  you  be  foolish  or  though  you  be  wise, 

With  hair  of  silver  or  gold, 

You  could  never  be  young  as  the  fairies  are, 

And  never  as  old. 

ROSE  FYLEMAN 

THE  LOST  PLAYMATE 

ALL  in  the  pleasant  afternoon 
I  saw  a  pretty  baby  moon, 
And  oh,  I  loved  her  silver  shine! 
She  was  a  little  friend  of  mine. 

145 


Through  rainy  days  and  sunny  weather 
I  thought  we  two  should  play  together; 
But,  then,  alas!  I  did  not  know 
How  fast  a  little  moon  can  grow. 

,«* 
And  now  when  I  go  out  to  play 

I  cannot  find  the  moon  all  day; 
But  she  has  grown  so  big  and  bright, 
They  let  her  keep  awake  at  night! 

Though  I  may  not  sit  up  to  see, 
In  bed  she  comes  and  shines  at  me; 
But  oh!  I  miss  the  little  moon 
Who  played  there  in  the  afternoon. 

ABBIE  FARWELL  BROWN 


ALONE 

WHITE  daisies  are  down  in  the  meadow, 
And  queer  little  beetles  and  things, 

And  sometimes  nice  rabbits  and  field-mice 
And  black-birds  with  red  on  their  wings. 

I  want  to  explore  all  alone, 

With  nobody  spying  around, 
All  alone,  all  alone,  all  alone! 

It  has  such  a  wonderful  sound. 
146 


Just  I  on  the  dusty  town  road, 
With  my  bank  money  safe  in  my  purse. 

Do  you  think  I  shall  ever  grow  up? 
Or  shall  I  just  always  have  nurse? 

JOHN  CHIPMAN  FARRAR 

THERE  WAS  A   MOON,  THERE  WAS  A  STAR 

THERE  was  a  moon,  there  was  a  star, 

There  was  a  path,  a  wood, 
A  silent  voice,  a  speechless  word, 

Well  heard  and  understood. 

SARAH  N.  CLEGHOBN 

ALDEBARAN  AT  DUSK 

THOU  art  the  star  for  which  all  evening  waits  — 

O  star  of  peace,  come  tenderly  and  soon! 

Nor  heed  the  drowsy  and  enchanted  moon, 
Who  dreams  in  silver  at  the  eastern  gates 
Ere  yet  she  brim  with  light  the  blue  estates 

Abandoned  by  the  eagles  of  the  noon. 

But  shine  thou  swiftly  on  the  darkling  dune 
And  woodlands  where  the  twilight  hesitates. 

Above  that  wide  and  ruby  lake  to-West 
Wherein  the  sunset  waits  reluctantly, 
Stir  silently  the  purple  wings  of  Night. 
147 


She  stands  afar,  upholding  to  her  breast, 
As  mighty  murmurs  reach  her  from  the  sea, 
Thy  lone  and  everlasting  rose  of  light. 

GEORGE  STEELING 


A  ROADSIDE  SINGER 

SOME  who  love  song  may  only  heed  the  lark; 

They  do  not  hark 
The  plaint  of  any  less  compelling  flight 

Within  their  sight,  — 
Yet  weary  ones,  plodding  along  their  way 

Through  the  tired  day, 
Hear  the  near  notes,  and  pause  the  while 

To  list,  —  and  smile. 

Some  singers  cannot  soar  to  sunlit  heights; 

More  lowly  flights 
Are  theirs,  —  along  the  by-ways  bringing 

Joy  by  their  singing. 
Thus  may  my  song  not  seek  the  distant  sky 

So  far  and  high, 
But  rather  keep  the  hedges  quiet  side 

And  there  abide. 

When  tired  mothers  and  children  pass  along, 
Hearing  my  song, 
148 


May  I,  rejoicing,  keep  my  humble  flight,  — 

Not  beyond  sight, 
But  by  the  quiet  roadside  gladly  dwelling, 

My  story  telling 
In  happy  song  and  trilling  roundelay 

To  cheer  the  way. 

So  may  I  make  the  skies  seem  nearer,  bluer; 

Hearts  lighter,  truer,  — 
And  all  the  pathway  sweeter  and  less  long, 

Just  for  my  song. 

FREDERIC  A.  WHITING 

THE  LITTLE  ROADS 

THE  great  roads  are  all  grown  over 

That  seemed  so  firm  and  white. 
The  deep  black  forests  have  covered  them. 

How  should  I  walk  aright? 
How  should  I  thread  these  tangled  mazes, 

Or  grope  to  that  far  off  light? 
I  stumble  round  the  thickets,  and  they  turn  me 

Back  to  the  thickets  and  the  night. 

Yet,  sometimes,  at  a  word,  an  elfin  pass-word, 
(0,  thin,  deep,  sweet  with  beaded  rain!) 

There  shines,  through  a  mist  of  ragged-robins, 
The  old  lost  April-coloured  lane, 
149 


That  leads  me  from  myself;  for  at  a  whisper, 
Where  the  strong  limbs  thrust  in  vain, 

At  a  breath,  if  my  heart  help  another  heart, 
The  path  shines  out  for  me  again! 

A  thin  thread,  a  rambling  lane  for  lovers 

To  the  light  of  the  world's  one  May, 
Where  the  white  dropping  flakes  may  wet  our  faces 

As  we  lift  them  to  the  bloom-bowed  spray: 
O  Master,  shall  we  ask  Thee,  then,  for  high-roads, 

Or  down  upon  our  knees  and  pray 
That  Thou  wilt  ever  lose  us  in  Thy  little  lanes, 

And  lead  us  by  a  wandering  way. 

ALFRED  NOTES 


INVOCATION 

COMRADE  of  solitude,  Spirit  of  Joy, 
Making  the  dreamer  a  light-hearted  boy; 
Come  to  me  often,  dwell  with  me  long, 
Charm  me  with  visions,  cheer  me  with  song! 

Romp  where  the  green-flowing  meadows  upfling 
Billows  a-flower  with  the  foam  of  the  spring! 
Flit  in  the  breath  of  the  scent-laden  air, 
Blend  with  the  manifold  melody  there! 
150 


Fill  the  sweet  hush  of  the  midsummer  glade, 
Pave  all  the  ocean  with  turquoise  and  jade, 
Breast  the  gray  mountain  close  at  my  side, 
Spread  out  the  world  for  me  wondrous  and  wide! 

Deepen  the  splendor  of  leaves  red  and  gold, 
Pour  all  the  treasure  my  bosom  can  hold! 
Comfort  me  wistfully,  tinge  the  soft  west, 
Show  me  that  death's  but  a  sinking  to  rest! 

Spur  me  with  winter,  spare  not  the  chill, 
Sing  in  the  blood  though  all  else  may  be  still. 
Swathe  in  moon-magic  the  dream-world  of  snow! 
Laugh  o'er  the  logs  while  I  bask  in  their  glow! 

Comrade  of  solitude,  Spirit  of  Joy, 
Make  of  me  ever  a  glad-hearted  boy! 
Dwell  in  me,  thrill  in  me  all  my  life  long, 
Be  thou  the  music  and  words  of  my  song! 

CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK 

THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERD'S  SONG 
(THIRTEENTH  CENTURY) 

THE  leaves,  the  little  birds,  and  I, 
The  fleece  clouds  and  the  sweet,  sweet  sky, 
The  pages  singing  as  they  ride 
Down  there,  down  there  where  the  river  is  wide  — 
151 


Heigh-ho,  what  a  day!  What  a  lovely  day! 
Even  too  lovely  to  hop  and  play 
With  my  sheep, 

Or  sleep 
In  the  sun  I 

And  so  I  lie  in  the  deep,  deep  grass 
And  watch  the  pages  as  they  pass, 
And  sing  to  them  as  they  to  me 
Till  they  turn  the  bend  by  the  poplar  tree. 
And  then  —  0  then,  I  sing  right  on 
To  the  leaves  and  the  lambs  and  myself  alone! 
For  I  think  there  must  be 
Inside  of  me 
A  bird! 

WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  PERCY 


CHOPIN  PRELUDE 

HUSH!  Did  you  hear 
The  cry  of  a  flute? 

The  fall  of  a  fairy  tear 
On  a  fairy  lute? 

Hush!  Did  you  mark 
Like  a  leaping  spray 

The  flash  of  a  silver  lark 
In  the  silver  day? 
152 


Hush!  Did  you  find  — 

In  the  wood's  deep  dream  — 
The  magic  of  all  the  wind 

By  a  magic  stream? 

Hush!  Did  you  hear 

The  cry  of  a  flute! 
The  fall  of  a  fairy  tear 

On  a  fairy  lute? 

HON.  ELEANOUR  NORTON 


"TELL  ME  YOUR  DREAM" 

How  as  a  child  I  used  to  tease, 

"Tell  me  your  dream  —  I  will  tell  mine,  too!" 
They  told  me  whatever  they  thought  would  please, 

And  I  waited  to  see  the  omen  come  true. 

My  childhood  fancy  I  still  pursue, 
Though  in  other  wise,  and  on  each  I  call 

"Tell  me  your  dream!"  .  .  .  But  your  dream  is  you, 
We  are  our  dreams  —  and  the  Dream  is  all. 

Do  not  deride  me,  do  not  deny, 

And  point  me  not  to  the  things  you  have  done, 
But  tell  me  your  dream!  Have  you  held  thereby  — 

The  clue  that  was  with  your  destiny  spun, 
153 


Walked  with  it  ever,  through  shadow  and  sun? 
Does  the  vision  remain?  —  no  ill  shall  befall; 

Lost?  —  there  is  nothing  worth  while  to  be  won! 
We  are  our  dreams  —  and  the  Dream  is  all. 

Oh,  why  to  memorial  places  repair, 

Where  the  lamps  in  the  shrines  perpetually  burn? 
Your  hero,  your  saint,  or  your  sage  is  not  there: 

Born  of  his  dream,  his  deeds  can  but  earn 

That  unto  a  dream  in  the  end  they  return! 
For  this,  is  the  trophy,  the  wreath,  on  the  wall; 

And  for  this  is  your  worship,  that  well  ye  may  learn 
We  are  our  dreams  —  and  the  Dream  is  all. 


Fathers  of  Men,  ye  will  leave  your  heirs  poor, 
And  the  treasures  ye  heap  shall  be  mean  and  small, 

If  nothing  ye  leave  of  the  dreams  that  endure.  .  .  . 
We  are  our  dreams  —  and  the  Dream  is  aD. 

EDITH  M.  THOMAS 


IDYL 

I  KNOW  a  forest,  stilly-deep, 

As  old  as  Age,  as  young  as  Youth,  - 

(Hush,  God  and  it  are  fast  asleep!) 
154 


There  crystal  rivers  tell  the  truth 
To  asking  trees, 

And  birds  make  musical  bouquets, 
Where  shadows  go  their  patterned  ways. 

From  fingers  of  the  breeze  .  .  . 

We'll  hide  us  in  the  green-voiced  dell 
And  waken  God,  and  be  made  well  — 

(Oh,  never  tell,  Oh,  never  tell .  .  .) 

AMANDA  BENJAMIN  HALL 


THE  GREAT  DIVIDE 

WHEN  I  drift  out  on  the  Silver  Sea, 

O  may  it  be 

A  blue  night 

With  a  white  moon 

And  a  sprinkling  of  stars  in  the  cedar  tree; 

And  the  silence  of  God, 

And  the  low  call 

Of  a  lone  bird,  — 

When  I  drift  out  on  the  Silver  Sea. 

LEW  SAEETT 

155 


THE  WILD  SWANS  AT  COOLE 

THE  trees  are  in  their  autumn  beauty, 

The  woodland  paths  are  dry, 

Under  the  October  twilight  the  water 

Mirrors  a  still  sky; 

Upon  the  brimming  water  among  the  stones 

Are  nine  and  fifty  swans. 

The  nineteenth  Autumn  has  come  upon  me 

Since  I  first  made  my  count; 

I  saw,  before  I  had  well  finished, 

All  suddenly  mount 

And  scatter  wheeling  in  great  broken  rings 

Upon  their  clamorous  wings. 

I  have  looked  upon  those  brilliant  creatures, 

And  now  my  heart  is  sore. 

All 's  changed  since  I,  hearing  at  twilight, 

The  first  time  on  this  shore, 

The  bell-beat  of  their  wings  above  my  head, 

Trod  with  a  lighter  tread. 

Unwearied  still,  lover  by  lover, 
They  paddle  in  the  cold, 
Companionable  streams  or  climb  the  air; 
Their  hearts  have  not  grown  old; 
156 


Passion  or  conquest,  wander  where  they  will, 
Attend  upon  them  still. 

And  now  they  drift  on  the  still  water 

Mysterious,  beautiful; 

Among  what  rushes  will  they  build, 

By  what  lake's  edge  or  pool 

Delight  men's  eyes,  when  I  awake  some  day 

To  find  they  have  flown  away? 

WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

THE  SUN-WORSHIPERS 

THE  trail  is  high  whereon  we  ride,  with  all  the  world  below  to  see, 
The  cleft  of  canyon,  sweep  of  range  and  winter-white  of  lonely 

peak; 
Lean  foothold  on  the  mountain-side,  and  on,  beyond,   The 

Mystery, 

The  unattained,  the  hidden  land  we  may  not  find,  but  ever 
seek. 

Content  were  vain.  Our  discontent,  divine,  forever  urges  on 
Through  stress  and  danger,  scorned  or  shared,  though  jour 
ney's  end  be  never  won: 
Say  you  our  days  are  vainly  spent  whose  eyes  have  looked  upon. 

the  dawn 
From  high  Chilao's  morning  crest,  and  bathed  our  faces  in  the 

Sun? 

157 


We  worship  not  what  men  have  made:  no  thing  so  small  is  our 

desire. 
The  little  words  of  men  that  die,  the  little  thoughts  of  men  that 

dream, 
Shall  perish  in  their  utterance:  and  build  for  these  an  altar 

fire? 
Our  creed  is  written  in  the  sky,  our  song  in  the  eternal  stream. 

We  journey  on  from  star  to  star,  nor  shall  we  find  a  dwelling- 
place, 

Nor  yet  implore  surcease  from  toil:  to  be  and  to  adore,  is  all: 
Beholding  dimly  from  afar  the  glory  of  the  Hidden  Face, 
Our  worship  ever  our  reward,  the  quest  our  golden  coronal. 

HENRY  HERBERT  KNIBBS 


TRAVEL 

THE  railroad  track  is  miles  away, 
And  the  day  is  loud  with  voices  speaking, 

Yet  there  is  n't  a  train  goes  by  all  day 
But  I  hear  its  whistle  shrieking. 

All  night  there  is  n't  a  train  goes  by, 

Though  the  night  is  still  for  sleep  and  dreaming, 
But  I  see  its  cinders  red  on  the  sky, 

And  hear  its  engine  steaming. 
158 


My  heart  is  warm  with  the  friends  I  make, 
And  better  friends  I'll  not  be  knowing, 

Yet  there  is  n't  a  train  I  would  n't  take, 
No  matter  where  it 's  going. 

EDNA  ST.  VINCENT  MILLAT 


JOHNNY  APPLESEED 

WHEN  the  air  of  October  is  sweet  and  cold  as  the  wine  of  apples 
Hanging  ungathered  in  frosted  orchards  along  the  Grand  River, 
I  take  the  road  that  winds  by  the  resting  fields  and  wander 
From  Eastmanville  to  Nunica  down  to  the  Villa  Crossing. 

I  look  for  old  men  to  talk  with,  men  as  old  as  the  orchards, 
Men  to  tell  me  of  ancient  days,  of  those  who  built  and  planted, 
Lichen  gray,  branch  broken,  bent  and  sighing, 
Hobbling  for  warmth  in  the  sun  and  for  places  to  sit  and  smoke. 

For  there  is  a  legend  here,  a  tale  of  the  croaking  old  ones 
That  Johnny  Appleseed  came  here,  planted  some  orchards 

around  here, 

When  nothing  was  here  but  the  pine  trees,  oaks  and  the  beeches, 
And  nothing  was  here  but  the  marshes,  lake  and  the  river. 

Peter  Van  Zylen  is  ninety  and  this  he  tells  me: 
My  father  talked  with  Johnny  Appleseed  there  on  the  hill-side, 
There  by  the  road  on  the  way  to  Fruitport,  saw  him 
Clearing  pines  and  oaks  for  a  place  for  an  apple  orchard. 

159 


Peter  Van  Zylen  says:  He  got  that  name  from  the  people 
For  carrying  apple-seed  with  him  and  planting  orchards 
All  the  way  from  Ohio,  through  Indiana  across  here, 
Planting  orchards,  they  say,  as  far  as  Illinois. 

Johnny  Appleseed  said,  so  my  father  told  me: 
I  go  to  a  place  forgotten,  the  orchards  will  thrive  and  be  here 
For  children  to  come,  who  will  gather  and  eat  hereafter. 
And  few  will  know  who  planted,  and  none  will  understand. 

I  laugh,  said  Johnny  Appleseed:  Some  fellow  buys  this  timber 
Five  years,  perhaps  from  to-day,  begins  to  clear  for  barley. 
And  here  in  the  midst  of  the  timber  is  hidden  an  apple  orchard. 
How  did  it  come  here?  Lord!  Who  was  it  here  before  me? 

Yes,  I  was  here  before  him,  to  make  these  places  of  worship, 
Labor  and  laughter  and  gain  in  the  late  October. 
Why  did  I  do  it,  eh?  Some  folks  say  I  am  crazy. 
Where  do  my  labors  end?  Far  west,  God  only  knows! 

Said  Johnny  Appleseed  there  on  the  hill-side:  Listen! 
Beware  the  deceit  of  nurseries,  sellers  of  seeds  of  the  apple. 
Think!  You  labor  for  years  in  trees  not  worth  the  raising. 
You  planted  what  you  knew  not,  bitter  or  sour  for  sweet. 

No  luck  more  bitter  than  poor  seed,  but  one  as  bitter: 
The  planting  of  perfect  seed  in  soil  that  feeds  and  fails, 
Nourishes  for  a  little,  and  then  goes  spent  forever. 
Look  to  your  seed,  he  said,  and  remember  the  soil. 

160 


And  after  that  is  the  fight :  the  foe  curled  up  at  the  root, 
The  scale  that  crumples  and  deadens,  the  moth  in  the  blossoms 
Becoming  a  life  that  coils  at  the  core  of  a  thing  of  beauty: 
You  bite  your  apple,  a  worm  is  crushed  on  your  tongue! 

And  it's  every  bit  the  truth,  said  Peter  Van  Zylen. 
So  many  things  love  an  apple  as  well  as  ourselves. 
A  man  must  fight  for  the  thing  he  loves,  to  possess  it: 
Apples,  freedom,  heaven,  said  Peter  Van  Zylen. 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 

THE  OULD  APPLE  WOMAN 

WITH  her  basket  of  apples  comes  Nora  McHugh, 

Wid  her  candies  an'  cakes  an'  wan  thing  an'  another, 
But  the  best  thing  she  brings  to  commind  her  to  you 

Is  the  smile  in  her  eyes  that  no  throuble  can  smother. 
An'  the  wit  that's  at  home  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue 

Has  a  freshness  unknown  to  her  candy  and  cake; 
Though  her  wares  had  been  stale  since  ould  Nora  was  young, 

There  is  little  complaint  you'd  be  carin'  to  make. 
Well  I  mind,  on  a  day,  I  complained  of  a  worm 

That  I  found  in  an  apple,  near  bitten  in  two, 
"But  suppose  ye  had  bit  it,  an'  where 'd  be  the  harm? 

For,  shure,  this  is  n't  Friday,"  said  Nora  McHugh. 

O  Nora  McHugh,  you've  the  blarneyin'  twist  in  you, 
Where  is  the  anger  could  drame  o'  resistin'  you? 
Faix,  we'll  be  sp'ilin'  you, 
161 


Blind  to  the  guile  in  you, 
While  there 's  a  smile  in  you, 
Nora  McHugh. 

It  was  Mistress  De  Vere,  that's  so  proud  of  her  name, 

Fell  to  boastin'  wan  day  of  her  kin  in  the  peerage  — 
Though  there  's  some  o'  thim  same,  years  ago  whin  they  came 

To  this  glorious  land,  was  contint  wid  the  steerage  — 
An'  she  bragged  of  her  ancistry,  Norman  an'  Dane, 

An'  the  like  furrin  ancients  that's  thought  to  be  swell. 
"Now,  I  hope,"  said  ould  Nora,  "ye '11  not  think  me  vain, 

Fur  it's  little  I  care  fur  ancistry  mesel'; 
But  wid  all  o'  your  pedigree,  ma'am,  I  believe 

'T  is  mesel'  can  go  back  a  bit  further  than  you, 
Fur  in  me  you  perceive  a  descindant  of  Eve, 

The  first  apple  woman,"  said  Nora  McHugh. 

O  Nora  McHugh,  sich  owdacious  frivolity! 
How  can  you  dare  to  be  jokin'  the  quality? 
Still,  we'll  be  sp'ilin'  you, 
Blind  to  the  guile  in  you, 
While  there 's  a  smile  in  you, 
Nora  McHugh. 

THOMAS  AUGUSTINE  DALY 


162 


MISS  LOO 

WHEN  thin-strewn  memory  I  look  through, 
I  see  most  clearly  poor  Miss  Loo, 
Her  tabby  cat,  her  cage  of  birds, 
Her  nose,  her  hair,  her  muffled  words, 
And  how  she  would  open  her  green  eyes, 
As  if  in  some  immense  surprise, 
Whenever  as  we  sat  at  tea 
She  made  some  small  remark  to  me. 

'T  is  always  drowsy  summer  when 

From  out  the  past  she  comes  again; 

The  westering  sunshine  in  a  pool 

Floats  in  her  parlour  still  and  cool; 

While  the  slim  bird  its  lean  wires  shakes, 

As  into  piercing  song  it  breaks; 

Till  Peter's  pale-green  eyes  ajar 

Dream,  wake;  wake,  dream,  in  one  brief  bar. 

And  I  am  sitting,  dull  and  shy, 

And  she  with  gaze  of  vacancy, 

And  large  hands  folded  on  the  tray, 
Musing  the  afternoon  away; 
Her  satin  bosom  heaving  slow 
With  sighs  that  softly  ebb  and  flow. 
And  her  plain  face  in  such  dismay, 
It  seems  unkind  to  look  her  way: 

163 


Until  all  cheerful  back  will  come 
Her  gentle  gleaming  spirit  home: 
And  one  would  think  that  poor  Miss  Loo 
Asked  nothing  else,  if  she  had  you. 

WALTEB  DE  LA  MAKB 


"MY  LIPS  WOULD  SING—" 

MY  lips  would  sing  a  song  for  you,  a  soulful  little  song  for  you, 
A  plaintive  little  song  for  you,  upon  a  summer's  day; 
But  for  the  veiy  life  of  me,  the  merry,  merry  life  of  me, 
The  laughter-loving  life  of  me,  I  cannot  but  be  gay. 

For  oh,  the  sun  is  shining,  Dear,  and  who  could  be  repining, 

Dear, 

And  who  would  be  unhappy,  Dear,  when  all  the  world  is  young? 
So  I  will  hum  a  melody,  a  mirthful  little  melody, 
A  joyous  little  melody  that  never  yet  was  sung. 

And  you  shall  hear  of  Fairyland,  of  Kings  and  Queens  of  Fairy 
land, 

Of  men  and  maids  of  Fairyland,  and  Love  shall  be  the  theme, 

And  straight  before  your  brimming  eyes,  a  golden  glint  of  Para 
dise 

Shall  steal,  My  Dear,  to  still  your  sighs,  and  give  you  back  your 
dream. 

164 


And  you  will  taste  of  happiness,  a  tiny  bit  of  happiness, 
A  wistful  bit  of  happiness,  upon  a  summer's  day; 
And  just  a  little  smile  from  you,  a  sunny  little  smile  from  you, 
A  trembly  little  smile  from  you  shall  be  a  poet's  pay! 

EDMUND  LEAMY 

MY  LIFE  IS  A  BOWL 

MY  life  is  a  bowl  which  is  mine  to  brim 

With  loveliness  old  and  new, 
So  I  fill  its  clay  from  stem  to  rim 

With  you,  Dear  Heart,  with  you! 

My  life  is  a  pool  so  small  it  can  hold 

But  a  star  and  a  patch  of  blue, 
But  the  blue  and  the  little  lamp  of  gold 

Are  you,  Dear  Heart,  are  you! 

My  life  is  a  homing  bird  that  flies, 
Through  the  starry  dusk  and  dew, 

Home  to  the  heaven  of  your  true  eyes, 
Home,  Dear  Heart,  to  you! 

MAY  RILEY  SMITH 

THE  HOMING  HEART 

EACH  day,  dear  love,  my  road  leads  far 
From  where  you,  home-contented,  are. 
My  mood  is  kin  to  that  unrest 
Which  sends  the  wild  bird  from  its  nest. 
165 


But  tho'  I  have  a  roaming  heart, 
God  gave  me  too  a  homing  heart,  — 
How  swift  at  dusk  my  paths  run  to 
The  lights  of  home,  the  arms  of  you! 

DANIEL  HENDERSON 

THE  STIRRUP-CUP 

YOUR  eyes  —  and  a  thousand  stars 

Leap  from  the  night  to  aid  me; 
I  scale  the  impossible  bars, 

I  laugh  at  a  world  that  dismayed  me. 

Your  voice  —  and  the  thundering  skies 

Tremble  and  cease  to  appall  me  — 
Coward  no  longer,  I  rise 

Spurred  for  what  battles  may  call  me. 

Your  eyes  —  and  my  purpose  grows  strong; 

Your  lips  —  and  high  passions  complete  me  ... 
For  your  love,  it  is  armor  and  Song  — 

And  where  is  the  thing  to  defeat  me! 

Louis  UNTERMEYER 

OBLIGATION 

HOLD  your  apron  wide 
That  I  may  pour  gifts  into  it, 
So  that  scarcely  shall  your  two  arms  hinder  them 
From  falling  to  the  ground. 
166 


I  would  pour  them  upon  you 
And  cover  you, 
For  greatly  do  I  feel  this  need 
Of  giving  you  something, 
Even  these  poor  things. 

Dearest  of  my  Heart! 

AMY  LOWELL 


RANK 

LOVE  is  no  advocate  of  caste  — 
No  pompous  prime,  no  royal  drone, 

Whose  heart  is  fettered  to  a  past, 
Whose  soul  is  not  his  own. 

Love  is  a  freeman,  bent  on  bliss, 
Who  scatters  incense  where  he  goes 

And  bids  the  peasant  sunbeams  kiss 
Alike  the  weed  and  rose. 

RALPH  M.  THOMPSON 


ANGELINE 

THAT  Angeline 

Should  have  been  overlooked, 
Among  the  hurrying  throng 
Of  doctors  and  nurses, 
167 


Of  patients  and  orderlies, 

Is  not  strange. 

So  dark  she  is, 

So  meek, 

So  occupied  with  mop  and  suds, 

So  zealous  that  the  ever-passing  feet 

Have  spotless  floors 

To  tread  upon. 

Her  Gift 

Might  have  gone  unnoticed 

But  for  the  Boys. 

The  very  mention  of  it 

Embarrassed  her. 

She  stood, 

Twirling  her  apron, 

Her  head  bowed, 

Smiling 

With  teeth  agleam, 

Her  great,  soft,  upturned  eyes 

Heavy  with  tears. 

"Ho,  it's  alii  thing 

I'ze  doin', 

Fo'  dem  as  done  so  much, 

A  mighty  lil  thing. 

'Gaze  dey's  jes'  me  an'  lil  Sue, 

Mah  sistah's  chile, 

168 


Mah  po'  sistah,  wat  died  wid  de  flu. 

So  I  sez  to  mase'f: 

?  Looka  hyah,  Angeline, 

Is  yo'  all  gwine  set  back 

Doin'  nuffin'  fo'  de  Boys 

Jes'  'caze  yo'  cain't  tek  'em 

Out  ridin'  in  limmyzines, 

Lakde  rich  folks?' 

"An'  mase'f  answer  back: 

'  'Corse  yo'  ain't! 

Wat  about  dat  passel  o'  pullets, 

Yo'  all  done  got? 

Dey's  layin'  fit  to  kill,  ain't  dey? 

De  good  Lawd  mek  yo'  steward 

O'  dem  pullets, 

An'  dem  aigs  too.' 

Dat  po'  sick  chile 

In  room  sebenty-fo'  say  dis  mawnin': 

'Angeline,  dem  aigs  so  fresh, 

Yo'  kin  mos'  hyah  de  hens  cacklin'T 

"A  Sunday  ah  done  mek 
Chicken  fry  f o'  de  boy  in  sebenty-seben. 
Eat! 

Lan'  sakes!  eat  lak  a  harves'  han'. 
It's  mighty  lil  — 
Wat's  dat  —  'widow's  mite'? 
169 


No,  sah, 
You'ze  'staken. 
Fze  a  maiden  lady!" 

So  mellow  was  Angeline's  laugh, 

So  full  of  good-will, 

It  must  have  quickened  the  heart 

Of  every  "po'  sick  chile" 

Along  the  dim  corridor. 

I  looked  back, 

At  the  turning. 

Again  her  industrious  mop 

Was  plying, 

Mop  and  suds, 

Busily  plying. 

HARRY  LEE 

A  SONG 

FOR  Mercy,  Courage,  Kindness,  Mirth, 

There  is  no  measure  upon  earth. 
Nay,  they  wither,  root  and  stem, 

If  an  end  be  set  for  them. 

Overbrim  and  overflow, 

If  your  own  heart  you  would  know; 
For  the  spirit  born  to  bless 

Lives  but  in  its  own  excess. 

LAURENCE  BINYON 

170 


MERCHANTMEN 

ALL  honour  be  to  merchantmen, 

And  ships  of  all  degree 
In  warlike  dangers  manifold 

Who  sail  and  keep  the  sea,  — 
In  peril  of  unlitten  coast 

And  death-besprinkled  foam, 
Who  daily  dare  a  hundred  deaths 

To  bring  their  cargoes  home. 

A  liner  out  of  Liverpool  —  a  tanker  from  the  Clyde  — 
A  hard-run  tramp  from  anywhere  —  a  tug  from  Merseyside  - 
A  cattle-boat  from  Birkenhead  —  a  coaler  from  the  Tyne  — 
All  honour  be  to  merchantmen  while  any  star  shall  shine! 

All  honour  be  to  merchantmen, 

And  ships  both  great  and  small, 
The  swift  and  strong  to  run  their  race, 

And  smite  their  foes  withal; 
The  little  ships  that  sink  or  swim, 

And  pay  the  pirates'  toll, 
Unarmoured  save  by  valiant  hearts 

And  strong  in  nought  but  soul. 

All  honour  be  to  merchantmen 
So  long  as  tides  shall  run, 
171 


Who  gave  the  seas  their  glorious  dead 

From  rise  to  set  of  sun,  — 
All  honour  be  to  merchantmen, 

While  England's  name  shall  stand, 
Who  sailed  and  fought,  and  dared  and  died, 

And  served  and  saved  their  land. 

A  sailing  ship  from  Liverpool  —  a  tanker  from  the  Clyde  — 
A  schooner  from  the  West  countrie  —  a  tug  from  Merseyside  — 
A  fishing  smack  from  Grimsby  town  —  a  coaler  from  the  Tyne  — 
All  honour  be  to  merchantmen  while  sun  and  moon  do  shine! 

C.  Fox  SMITH 

THREE  SWORDS 

THREE  blades  from  out  the  smithy  fire 
He  drew,  and  forged  with  starry  blows. 

Beyond  his  door  the  skies  of  God 
Bloomed  like  an  unplucked  rose. 

"Three  swords,"  he  said,  "I  make  for  you, 
0  little  Knight  of  Love  and  Youth! 

One  blade  is  Knowledge,  one  is  Faith,. 
And  one  is  Hope,  forsooth!" 

I  was  so  young;  and  life,  a  rose 
That  bloomed  beyond  the  smithy  door  — 

"Give  me  the  first,"  I  cried,  and  rode 
Out  like  a  knight  to  war! 
172 


Another  year  I  came  again  — 

His  forge  was  like  a  rose  agleam. 
"Give  me  the  second  sword,"  I  said, 

"That  I  may  fight  —  and  dream." 

The  second  sword  lay  in  my  hand, 
I  rode  once  more,  as  knights  must  do, 

But  all  my  casque  was  wet  with  tears, 
And  my  heart's  blood  trickled  through. 

Then  came  I  back  along  the  road, 

Thrice-ridden,  till  I  saw  his  fire 
Glow  redly  through  the  bitter  dusk 

Like  a  flower  of  desire. 

"The  third!"  I  gasped.  "Give  me  the  third, 
The  last  sword,  that  I  fight  and  die!" 

Then  turned  again,  and  lo,  I  saw 
A  dust  of  roses  through  the  sky! 

DANA  BURNET 


HOPE 

WHEN  I  was  a  little  boy, 
I  followed  hope  and  slighted  joy. 
Now  my  wit  has  larger  scope, 
I  clutch  at  joy  and  heed  not  hope. 
173 


At  least  that  doctrine  I  profess, 
For  there  I  know  lies  happiness; 
But  hope,  for  all  the  shifts  I  try, 
Will  be  my  sovereign  till  I  die. 

GAMALIEL  BRADFORD 


THE  FLOWER  FACTORY 

LISABETTA,  Marianina,  Fiametta,  Teresina, 
They  are  winding  stems  of  roses,  one  by  one,  one  by  one, 
Little  children  who  have  never  learned  to  play; 
Teresina  softly  crying  that  her  fingers  ache  to-day; 
Tiny  Fiametta  nodding  when  the  twilight  slips  in,  gray. 
High  above  the  clattering  street,  ambulance  and  fire-gong 

beat, 
They  sit,  curling  crimson  petals,  one  by  one,  one  by  one. 

Lisabetta,  Marianina,  Fiametta,  Teresina, 

They  have  never  seen  a  rosebush  nor  a  dewdrop  in  the  sun. 

They  will  dream  of  the  vendetta,  Teresina,  Fiametta, 

Of  a  Black  Hand  and  a  face  behind  a  grating; 

They  will  dream  of  cotton  petals,  endless,  crimson,  suffocating, 

Never  of  a  wild-rose  thicket  nor  the  singing  of  a  cricket, 

But  the  ambulance  will  bellow  through  the  wanness  of  their 

dreams, 
And  their  tired  lids  will  flutter  with  the  street's  hysteric  screams. 

174 


Lisabetta,  Marianina,  Fiametta,  Teresina, 

They  are  winding  stems  of  roses,  one  by  one,  one  by  one. 

Let  them  have  a  long,  long  playtime,  Lord  of  Toil,  when 

toil  is  done, 

Fill  their  baby  hands  with  roses,  joyous  roses  of  the  sun! 

FLORENCE  WILKINSON  EVANS 

AFTER 

AFTER  the  darkness,  dawning 

And  stir  of  the  rested  wing. 
Fresh  fragrance  from  the  meadow, 

Fresh  hope  in  everything! 

After  the  winter,  springtime 
And  dreams  that  flowerlike  throng; 

After  the  tempest,  silence; 
After  the  silence,  song! 

After  the  heat  of  anger, 

Love  that  all  life  enwraps; 
After  the  stress  of  battle, 

The  trumpet  sounding  "taps"; 

After  despair  and  doubting, 

A  faith  without  alloy; 
God  here  and  over  yonder,  — 

The  end  of  all  things  Joy! 

FLORENCE  EARLE  COATES 

175 


THE  HEART'S  QUESTION 

Is  it  such  a  little  thing 

To  find  a  wind-flower 
Twinkling  in  the  wild-wood 

Hour  after  hour, 
Dancing  to  the  wind's  pipe 

With  a  happy  nod? 
Is  it  such  a  little  thing? 

I  think  it  is  God. 

Is  it  such  a  little  thing 

To  find  the  young  moon 
Flitting  thro  the  tree  boughs 

In  her  silver  shoon, 
Seeking  for  the  wind-flower 

There  along  the  sod? 
Is  it  such  a  little  thing? 

I  think  it  is  God. 

Is  it  such  a  little  thing 

To  find  in  your  face 
Something  of  the  wind-flower 

And  young  moon's  grace? 
Something  of  the  wild-wood, 

Ever  faery-trod? 
Is  it  such  a  little  thing? 

I  think  it  is  God. 

CALE  YOUNG  RICE 

176 


THE  THINGS  THAT  GROW 

IT  was  nothing  but  a  little  neglected  garden, 
Laurel-screened,  and  hushed  in  a  hot  stillness; 
An  old  pear-tree,  and  flowers  mingled  with  weeds. 
Yet  as  I  came  to  it  all  unawares,  it  seemed 
Charged  with  mystery;  and  I  stopped,  intruding, 
Fearful  of  hurting  that  so  absorbed  stillness. 
For  I  was  tingling  with  the  wind's  salty  splendor, 
And  still  my  senses  moved  with  the  keel's  buoyance 
Out  on  the  water,  where  strong  light  was  shivered 
Into  a  dance  dazzling  as  drops  of  flame. 
The  rocking  radiance  and  the  winged  sail's  lifting 
And  the  noise  of  the  rush  of  the  water  left  behind 
Sang  to  my  body  of  movement,  victory,  joy. 
But  here  the  light  was  asleep,  and  green,  green 
In  a  veined  leaf  it  glowed  among  the  shadows. 
A  hollyhock  rose  to  the  sun  and  bathed  its  flowers 
Luminously  clustered  in  the  unmoving  air; 
A  butterfly  lazily  winked  its  gorgeous  wings; 
Marigolds  burned  intently  amid  the  grass; 
The  ripening  pears  hung  each  with  a  rounded  shadow: 
All  beyond  was  drowned  in  the  indolent  blueness, 
And  at  my  feet,  like  a  word  of  an  unknown  tongue, 
Was  the  midnight-dark  bloom  of  the  delicate  pansy. 
Suddenly  these  things  awed  my  heart,  as  if  here 
In  perishing  blossom  and  springing  shoot  were  a  power 
Greater  than  shipwrecking  winds  and  all  wild  waters. 

LAURENCE  BINYON 

177 


THE  OLD  HOUSE 

O  KINDLY  house,  where  time  my  soul  endows 
With  courage,  hope,  and  patience  manifold, 
How  shall  my  debt  of  love  to  thee  be  told, 

Since  first  I  heard  the  sweet-voiced  robins  rouse 

The  morn  among  thy  ancient  apple-boughs? 
Here  was  I  nourished  on  the  truths  of  old, 
Here  taught  against  new  times  to  make  me  bold, 

Memory  and  hope  the  door-posts,  O  dear  house! 

Heaven's  blessing  rested  on  thy  dark-gray  roof, 
And  clasped  thy  children,  age  to  lapsing  age, 
Birth  and  the  grave  thy  tale  till  time's  release; 

Poverty  did  not  hold  from  thee  aloof; 
Of  lowly  good  thou  wast  the  hermitage; 
Now  falls  the  evening  light.  God  give  thee  peace! 

GEORGE  EDWARD  WOODBERRY 


ON  GROWING  OLD 

BE  with  me  Beauty  for  the  fire  is  dying, 
My  dog  and  I  are  old,  too  old  for  roving, 
Man,  whose  young  passion  sets  the  spindrift  flying 
Is  soon  too  lame  to  march,  too  cold  for  loving. 
178 


I  take  the  book  and  gather  to  the  fire, 
Turning  old  yellow  leaves;  minute  by  minute, 
The  clock  ticks  to  my  heart;  a  withered  wire 
Moves  a  thin  ghost  of  music  in  the  spinet. 

I  cannot  sail  your  seas,  I  cannot  wander 

Your  cornland,  nor  your  hill-land  nor  your  valleys 

Ever  again,  nor  share  the  battle  yonder 

Where  the  young  knight  the  broken  squadron  rallies. 

Only  stay  quiet  while  my  mind  remembers 
The  beauty  of  fire  from  the  beauty  of  embers. 

Beauty,  have  pity,  for  the  strong  have  power, 
The  rich  their  wealth,  the  beautiful  their  grace, 
Summer  of  man  its  sunlight  and  its  flower, 
Spring  time  of  man  all  April  in  a  face. 

Only  as  in  the  jostling  in  the  Strand, 
Where  the  mob  thrusts  or  loiters  or  is  loud 
The  beggar  with  the  saucer  in  his  hand 
Asks  only  a  penny  from  the  passing  crowd, 

So,  from  this  glittering  world  with  all  its  fashion, 
Its  fire  and  play  of  men,  its  stir,  its  march, 
Let  me  have  wisdom,  Beauty,  wisdom  and  passion, 
Bread  to  the  soul,  rain  where  the  summers  parch. 

Give  me  but  these,  and  though  the  darkness  close 
.Even  the  night  will  blossom  as  the  rose. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 
179 


THE  PHILOSOPHER 

I  SAW  him  sitting  in  his  door 

Trembling  as  old  men  do; 
His  house  was  old,  his  barn  was  old, 

And  yet  his  eyes  seemed  new. 

His  eyes  had  seen  three  times  my  years 

And  kept  a  twinkle  still 
Though  they  had  looked  at  birth  and  death 

And  three  graves  on  a  hill. 

"I  will  sit  down  with  you,"  I  said, 

"And  you  will  make  me  wise; 
Tell  me  how  you  have  kept  the  joy 

Still  burning  hi  your  eyes." 

Then  like  an  old-time  orator 

Impressively  he  rose; 
"I  make  the  most  of  all  that  comes 

And  the  least  of  all  that  goes"  — 

The  jingling  rhythm  of  his  words 

Echoed  as  old  songs  do,  — 
Yet  this  had  kept  his  eyes  alight 

Till  he  was  ninety-two. 

SARA  TEASDALE 
180 


THE  BACKSLIDER 

"No,  Mis'  Talbot,  I'm  not  going  to  church. 
I  never  thought  I  'd  be  a  backslider, 
But  I've  come  to  it  at  last.  The  new  preacher 
Has  upset  all  my  ideas  of  religion, 
For  he  don't  believe  the  Bible  is  true,  — 
Leastwise  only  in  parts.  To  his  thinking, 
Adam  and  Jonah  never  were  alive: 
They  are  just  story-book  folks.  I  heard  that 
And  did  n't  flinch,  for  Adam  don't  mean  much 
To  a  Methodist  who  can't  believe 
In  John  Calvin  and  predestination. 
Besides,  Adam  always  seemed  to  me  weakly 
In  his  mind.  I  'm  not  a  voting  female 
Champing  for  women  to  do  everything, 
But  I  do  think  Eve  was  an  improvement  on  Adam. 

"Now  about  old  Jonah: 
I  always  took  him  with  a  'grain  of  salt.' 
He  must  have  been  shiftless  and  careless; 
I  never  could  abide  a  lazy  man. 
I  think  we  ought  to  raise  our  own  gourd  vines 
To  keep  the  sun  from  giving  us  sunstroke, 
And  not  lay  too  much  on  the  Lord's  shoulders. 
I  stood  the  preacher's  talk  until  he  killed  Job; 
Then  I  rose  right  up  in  meeting  and  said: 

'No,  you  cannot  take  Job  away  from  me. 

181 


He  was  a  perfect  and  an  upright  man, 
And  he  has  been  my  good  friend  all  my  life.' 

"I  can  see  him  just  as  plain  as  can  be 
Bearing  the  scourges  of  the  Almighty 
With  fortitude,  and  I  know  how  he  felt 
When  God  spoke  to  him  out  of  the  whirlwind. 
Job  has  been  the  friend  of  so  many  folks 
I  wonder  even  the  new  minister 
Dares  to  say  a  word  against  him,  and  tell 
This  generation  that  he  never  lived. 
He  is  more  alive  than  some  men  I  know 
Breathing  on  earth  today. 

"So  now  you  see 

Why  I  'm  not  going  to  church  any  more. 
I'll  sit  here  under  the  Sweet  Locust  tree 
While  you're  gone,  and  read  a  chapter  or  two,  - 
Perhaps  the  thirty-eighth  chapter  of  Job, 
That  tells  of  the  morning  stars  singing 
Together  with  the  Sons  of  God  for  joy, 
And  of  the  'understanding  of  the  heart/ 
For  all  the  people  who  ever  did  any  good 
In  this  world  understood  things  with  the  heart, 
And  the  world  won't  be  much  different 
In  that.  I  fancy  the  new  minister 
Has  n't  found  his  heart  yet.  After  he's  lived 
And  suffered,  he'll  take  Job  out  of  his  grave 

182 


And  find  he  is  alive,  and  a  friend, 
And  say  with  him  in  humbleness  of  mind : 
'I  have  uttered  that  I  understood  not/ 
And  find  in  the  end  Job's  peace  and  Job's  blessings." 

JEANNE  ROBERT  FOSTER 

THE  HILL-BORN 

You  who  are  born  of  the  hills, 

Hill-bred,  lover  of  hills, 

Though  the  world  may  not  treat  you  aright, 

Though  your  soul  be  aweary  with  ills: 

This  will  you  know  above  other  men, 

In  the  hills  you  will  find  your  peace  again. 

You  who  were  nursed  on  the  heights, 

Hill-bred,  lover  of  skies, 

Though  your  love  and  your  hope  and  your  heart, 

Though  your  trust  be  hurt  till  it  dies: 

This  will  you  know  above  other  men, 

In  the  hills  you  will  find  your  faith  again. 

You  who  are  brave  from  the  winds, 

Hill-bred,  lover  of  winds, 

Though  the  God  whom  you  know  seems  dim, 

Seems  lost  in  a  mist  that  blinds: 

This  will  you  know  above  other  men, 

In  the  hills  you  will  find  your  God  again. 

MAXWELL  STEUTHERS  BURT 
183 


A  HILLSIDE  FARMER 

DAWN  —  and  the  mist  across  the  silent  lane; 
Each  day  its  little  round  of  petty  tasks. 
"Are  you  not  very  lonely?"  someone  asks, 
"Here  where  the  old  folks  stay,  and  no  one  new 
Comes  in  to  start  a  farm?  You  should  go,  too; 
Valleys  grow  better  grain." 

This  may  seem  still  and  lonely,  but  for  me 
Hill-tops  are  wider  than  the  open  land. 
Maybe  you  never  could  quite  understand 
How  dear  it  is  to  me  —  this  loneliness. 
You  think  the  hills  are  narrowing,  I  guess; 
But,  oh,  how  far  we  see! 

JOHN  CHIPMAN  FAERAR 

REFUGE 

WHEN  stars  ride  in  on  the  wings  of  dusk, 

Out  on  the  silent  plain, 
After  the  fevered  fret  of  day, 

I  find  my  strength  again. 

Under  the  million  friendly  eyes 

That  smile  in  the  lonely  night, 
Close  to  the  rolling  prairie's  heart, 

I  find  my  heart  for  the  fight. 
184 


Out  where  the  cool  long  winds  blow  free, 

I  fling  myself  on  the  sod; 
And  there  in  the  tranquil  solitude 

I  find  my  soul,  —  and  God. 

LEWSAKETT 


THE  STORM 

THE  wind  was  a  crowd, 
Wet  birds  were  the  skies, 

I  marched  laughing  aloud 
With  the  storm  in  my  eyes. 

Part  beast  and  part  bird, 

A  waif  of  the  plain, 
My  laughter  was  heard 

With  the  voice  of  the  rain. 

I  thought  I  remembered 

A  night  long  ago 
When  our  hoofs  beat  the  sod 

And  we  rushed  to  and  fro, 

Our  flanks  steaming  hot, 
Rain-driven  and  warm! 

I  had  almost  forgot 
Till  I  ran  with  the  storm. 

185 


I  thought  I  remembered 

Black  roads  to  a  star, 
When  the  wind  in  our  pinions 

Beat  us  up  and  afar. 

How  shrill  were  our  cries, 
As  we  flew  from  the  plain! 

Oh,  that  road  to  the  skies, 
Beaten  up  by  the  rain! 

The  flails  of  the  storm 

Beat  my  soul  from  its  mesh. 
It  paled  like  a  mist, 

Driven  out  of  the  flesh. 

It  flew  through  the  night 
To  my  mother's  warm  hand, 

But  I  —  I  was  abroad 
With  the  wind  and  the  sand. 

"[Inhuman  and  strange, 

'Twixt  the  rain  and  the  stone, 
I  must  flutter  and  range 

Through  the  dark  all  alone! 

The  darkness, 
The  wetness, 
The  sleekness, 
The  fatness 

186 


Of  shapes  in  the  tempest 
Submerged,  with  no  name, 
As  with  laughter  and  shout 
And  a  clapping  of  hands 
I  danced  in  and  out 
Or  clove  in  the  sands. 
As  straight  as  the  lightning 
I  struck  and  I  came  — 
The  storm  was  the  thunder, 
And  I  was  the  flame. 

It  was  thus  that  I  ran 

To  the  House  on  the  Hill, 
When  the  voice  of  love 

Bade  the  tempest  be  stilL 

Then  I  gathered  me  back 

From  the  rain  and  the  sand 
To  the  soul  held  so  close 

In  my  mother's  warm  hand. 

ANNA  HEMPSTEAD  BRANCH 

WIND-IN-THE-HAIR  AND  RAIN-IN-THE-FACE 

WIND-IN-THE-HAIR  and  Rahi-in-the-face 

Are  friends  worth  the  having,  and  yours  at  command; 
For  many's  the  hour  and  many's  the  place 

We've  frolicked  together  on  ocean  or  land. 

187 


They'll  brighten  the  darks  of  your  gloomiest  mood! 

They'll  strengthen  your  heart  with  their  boisterous  play, 
They  '11  buffet  your  anger  until  it 's  subdued, 

They'll  sport  with  your  sorrow  and  whisk  it  away. 

Don't  clutch  in  your  curls  with  that  grasp  of  despair! 

A  tear  on  the  cheek  is  a  drop  out  of  place! 
"I'll  rumple  your  tresses!"  roars  Wind-in-the-hair. 

"Let  me  do  your  crying!"  trills  Rain-in-the-face. 

No  seven-league  boots  like  a  pair  of  old  shoes, 
No  wish-cloak  that  equals  a  rain-beaded  coat, 

To  take  you  away  from  the  Realm  of  the  Blues, 
To  give  you  the  will  that  grips  Care  by  the  throat! 

How  petty  our  griefs  under  God's  open  sky! 

How  often  but  ghosts  of  a  conjuring  brain! 
How  quickly  they  dwindle,  how  lightly  they  fly, 

When  winnowed  and  washed  by  the  wind  and  the  rain! 

Then,  on  with  your  shabbiest,  hardiest  wear! 

(The  kind  that  the  women-folk  term  "a  disgrace!") 
And  swing  down  the  highway  with  Wind-in-the-hair, 

Or  splash  through  the  puddles  with  Rain-in-the-face! 

ARTHUR  GUITERMAN 


188 


THE  PUDDLE 

I  CURSED  the  puddle  when  I  found 

Unseeing  I  had  walked  therein, 

Forgetting  the  uneven  ground, 

Because  my  eyes 

Were  on  the  skies, 

To  glean  their  glory  and  to  win 

The  sunset's  trembling  ecstasies. 

And  then  I  marked  the  puddle's  face, 

When  still  and  quiet  grown  again, 

Was  but  concerned,  as  I,  to  trace 

The  wonder  spread 

Above  its  head, 

And  mark  and  mirror  and  contain 

The  gold  and  purple,  rose  and  red. 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

AUTUMN 

Now,  like  a  rough  buffet  in  my  face, 

The  first  breeze  of  Autumn, 

Burlily  swaggering  through  the  blistered  streets, 

Lashes  my  summer-drugged  spirit. 

From  the  chill  far  hills  it  comes, 
Brusquely  jostling  down  the  fruit  in  the  orchards, 
189 


Clawing  the  gay-colored  leaves  from  the  trees, 

Until  their  thin  corpses  litter  the  ground, 

And  crying  to  the  spirits  of  men: 

"Ho,  away  with  you! 

Skulk  to  your  dim  houses, 

Cower  from  your  frosty  master! 

I  and  my  brother,  Winter,  proscribe  you! 

We  will  chill  with  our  icy  touch 

The  gay  glow  of  your  hearts, 

We  will  strip  bare  the  foliage  of  your  souls." 

Ah,  breeze  of  Autumn, 

You  are  no  conqueror  to  me, 

But  brother  of  my  spirit. 

Your  rough  handshake  bugles  up  my  laggard  self. 

Though  you  bluster  with  your  chill  blast 

I  will  roar  you  back  from  my  loved  ways. 

Your  tempest  heartens  my  soul 

For  the  keen  struggle  remaining, 

And  the  glad,  hard  road. 

CLEMENT  WOOD 


SEASONS 

THE  night  leans  dumb  above  the  frozen  fields. 
High  overhead,  bare  treetops  interlacing, 
Write  on  the  sky,  their  ancient  secrets  tracing. 
190 


Where  are  the  seasons  gone?  Old  autumn  leaves 
Fly  on  the  wind,  and  now  in  wild  December 
Soar  like  the  birds  who  love  and  spring  remember. 

White  stars  drop  petals  from  their  deathless  bloom 
Down  on  the  ice-black  pools.  The  moonlight,  kneeling, 
With  silvery  hands  the  wounded  earth  is  healing. 

O  blessed  spell  that  brings  the  May  once  more! 
3Varm  Beauty  on  the  world  her  web  is  flinging, 
,\nd  Memory  turns  and  beckons  to  me  singing. 

GRETCHEN  0.  WAREEN 


FAITH 

IF  on  this  night  of  still,  white  cold, 
I  can  remember  May, 
New  green  of  tree  and  underbrush, 
A  hillside  orchard's  mounting  flush, 
The  scent  of  earth  and  noon's  blue  hush, 
A  robin's  jaunty  way; 

If  on  this  night  of  bitter  frost, 
I  know  such  things  can  be, 
That  lovely  May  is  true  —  ah,  well, 
I  shall  believe  the  tales  men  tell, 
Wonders  of  bliss  and  asphodel, 

And  immortality. 

HORTENSE  FLEXNEB 
191 


IMMORTALITY 

BATTLES  nor  songs  can  from  oblivion  save, 
But  Fame  upon  a  white  deed  loves  to  build; 

From  out  that  cup  of  water  Sidney  gave, 
Not  one  drop  has  been  spilled. 

LlZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE 


WINTER 

GREEN  Mistletoe! 

Oh,  I  remember  now 

A  dell  of  snow, 

Frost  on  the  bough; 

None  there  but  I: 

Snow,  snow,  and  a  wintry  sky. 

None  there  but  I, 

And  footprints  one  by  one, 

Zigzaggedly, 

Where  I  had  run; 

Where  shrill  and  powdery 

A  robin  sat  in  the  tree. 

And  he  whistled  sweet; 
And  I  in  the  crusted  snow 
192 


With  snow-clubbed  feet 
Jigged  to  and  fro, 
Till,  from  the  day, 
The  rose-light  ebbed  away. 

And  the  robin  flew 
Into  the  air,  the  air, 
The  white  mist  through; 
And  small  and  rare 
The  night-frost  fell 
In  the  calm  and  misty  dell. 

And  the  dusk  gathered  low, 
And  the  silver  moon  and  stars 
On  the  frozen  snow 
Drew  taper  bars, 
Kindled  winking  fires 
In  the  hooded  briers. 

And  the  sprawling  Bear 
Growled  deep  in  the  sky; 
And  Orion's  hair 
Streamed  sparkling  by: 
But  the  North  sighed  low, 
"Snow,  snow,  more  snow!" 

WALTER  DE  LA  MARE 


193 


THE  ONSET 

ALWAYS  the  same  when  on  a  fated  night 
At  last  the  gathered  snow  lets  down  as  white 
As  maybe  in  dark  woods  and  with  a  song 
It  shall  not  make  again  all  winter  long 
Of  hissing  on  the  yet  uncovered  ground, 
I  almost  stumble  looking  up  and  round, 
As  one  who  overtaken  by  the  end 
Gives  up  his  errand  and  lets  death  descend 
Upon  him  where  he  is,  with  nothing  done 
To  evil,  no  important  triumph  won 
More  than  if  life  had  never  been  begun. 

Yet  att  the  precedent  is  on  my  side: 
I  know  that  winter  death  has  never  tried 
The  earth  but  it  has  failed:  the  snow  may  heap 
In  long  storms  an  undrifted  four  feet  deep 
As  measured  against  maple,  birch,  and  oak; 
It  cannot  check  the  Peeper's  silver  croak; 
And  I  shall  see  the  snow  all  go  down  hill 
In  water  of  a  slender  April  rill 
That  flashes  tail  through  last  year's  withered  brake 
And  dead  weeds  like  a  disappearing  snake. 
Nothing  will  be  left  white  but  here  a  birch 
And  there  a  clump  of  houses  with  a  church. 

ROBERT  FROST 
194 


SNOW  DUST 

THE  way  a  crow 

Shook  down  on  me 
The  dust  of  snow 

From  a  hemlock  tree 

Has  given  my  heart 

A  change  of  mood 
And  saved  some  part 

Of  a  day  I  had  rued. 

ROBEBT  FROST 


BELL  OF  DAWN 

FAINT  music  of  a  bell  which  dawn  brings  to  my  ear,  made  my 
heart  young  again  here  at  the  break  of  day. 

Faint  bell-like  music  which  through  dewy  dawn  I  hear  ring 
ing  so  far,  so  near,  changed  all  I  hope  and  fear. 

What,  shall  I  after  this,  survive  my  dear-bought  bliss,  music 
by  which  my  soul's  far  youth  recovered  is? 

Chiming  so  far  away,  so  lonely  and  withdrawn,  0  little  sing 
ing  air  in  the  fresh  heart  of  dawn, 

You  flee,  return  and  ring:  seeking  like  love  to  stray,  you 
tremble  in  my  heart  here  at  the  break  of  day. 

195 


Ah,  can  life  ever  be  of  such  serenity,  so  peaceful,  mild  and 
fair  as  is  this  little  air? 

So  simple  yet  so  sweet  as,  over  meadows  borne,  this  little 
tune  that  thrills  all  the  fresh  heart  of  morn? 

PAUL  FORT 
(Translated  by  Ludwig  Lewisohri) 

THE  BIRD  AT  DAWN 

WHAT  I  saw  was  just  one  eye 
In  the  dawn  as  I  was  going: 
A  bird  can  carry  all  the  sky 
In  that  little  button  glowing. 

Never  in  my  life  I  went 
So  deep  into  the  firmament. 

He  was  standing  on  a  tree, 

All  in  blossom  overflowing; 

And  he  purposely  looked  hard  at  me, 

At  first,  as  if  to  question  merrily: 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

But  next  some  far  more  serious  thing  to  say; 

I  could  not  answer,  could  not  look  away. 

Oh,  that  hard,  round,  and  so  distracting  eye: 
Little  mirror  of  all  sky!  — 
And  then  the  after-song  another  tree 
Held,  and  sent  radiating  back  on  me. 

196 


If  no  man  had  invented  human  word, 

And  a  bird-song  had  been 

The  only  way  to  utter  what  we  mean, 

What  would  we  men  have  heard, 

What  understood,  what  seen, 

Between  the  trills  and  pauses,  in  between 

The  singing  and  the  silence  of  a  bird? 

HAROLD  MONRO 

THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM 

SOFTLY  I  come  into  the  dance  of  the  spheres, 
Into  the  choir  of  lights, 

New  from  my  nest  in  God's  heart. 
0  Night,  the  chosen  of  nights, 
Longing  and  dream  of  the  years, 
Blessed  thou  art. 

Golden  the  fruit  hangs  on  the  hyaline  tree; 
Golden  the  glistening  tide 

Sweeps  through  the  heavens;  the  cars 
Of  the  great  mooned  planets  glide 
Golden;  and  yet  to  me 
Bow  down  the  stars; 

Casting  their  crowns,  bright  with  seonian  reigns, 
Under  the  flight  of  my  feet 

Eager  for  Bethlehem, 
Thither  with  music-beat 
197 


Blent  ©f  innumerous  strains 
Marshaling  them. 

Sweetly  their  chant  soars  through  unsearchable  space, 
Quivering  vespers  that  thrill 

Into  the  deep  nocturne- 
Symphony  I  fulfill; 
I,  who,  like  Mary's  face, 
Wonder  and  yearn, 

Cherish,  adore,  keeping  the  watch  above 

The  Word  made  flesh  to-night; 
Wonderful  Word,  impearled 

In  childhood  holy-white; 
Word  that  is  Godhood,  Love, 

Light  of  the  World. 

KATHARINE  LEE  BATES 

THE  CHRISTMAS  CAROL  OF  THE  BEES 
(FOUNDED  ON  AN  OLD  ENGLISH  SUPERSTITION) 

'T  is  Christmas  Eve  in  an  Old  World  garden, 

An  English  garden  of  long  ago, 
And  down  in  the  dusk  of  the  privet  hedges 

The  beehives  stand  in  a  goodly  row. 
Still  is  each  trim  little  conical  dwelling, 

Still  are  the  delicate  wings  below; 
Hardly  the  wind  dares  venture  a  whisper 

Over  the  beds  where  the  flowers  grow. 
198 


Still,  still,  garden  and  field  and  hill, 
Waiting  the  radiant  Christmas  morn, 
Waiting  the  heav'rily  morn. 

Midnight  strikes  from  the  ivied  tower,  — 

Hark,  what  a  clamor  the  tolling  brings! 
Bells  in  the  distance  joyfully  answer; 

Earth,  rejoicing  an  anthem  sings. 
Down  where  the  honey-bees  cling  and  cluster, 

Buzzing,  humming,  a  carol  rings  — 
"Christ  is  born!"  so  the  golden  chorus; 

"Praise  Him!  ye  that  have  voice  and  wings!',' 

Sing,  sing,  ye  that  have  voice  and  wing. 
Sing,  for  the  Sun  of  the  World  is  born, 
Sing  for  the  Christ  is  born! 

NORA  ARCHIBALD  SMITH 

THE  BIRTH 

THERE  is  a  legend  that  the  love  of  God 
So  quickened  under  Mary's  heart  it  wrought 
Her  very  maidenhood  to  holier  stuff .  .  . 
However  that  may  be,  the  birth  befell 
Upon  a  night  when  all  the  Syrian  stars 
Swayed  tremulous  before  one  lordlier  orb 
That  rose  in  gradual  splendor, 
Paused, 

199 


Flooding  the  firmament  with  mystic  light, 

And  dropped  upon  the  breathing  hills 

A  sudden  music 

Like  a  distillation  from  its  gleams; 

A  rain  of  spirit  and  a  dew  of  song! 

DON  MARQUIS 


CRADLE-SONG 

MADONNA,  MADONNINA, 
Sat  by  the  grey  road-side, 
Saint  Joseph  her  beside, 
And  Our  Lord  at  her  breast; 
Oh  they  were  fain  to  rest, 
Mary  and  Joseph  and  Jesus, 
All  by  the  grey  road-side. 

She  said,  Madonna  Mary, 

"I  am  hungry,  Joseph,  and  weary, 

All  in  the  desert  wide." 

Then  bent  a  tall  palm-tree 

Its  branches  low  to  her  knee; 

"Behold,"  the  palm-tree  said, 

"My  fruit  that  shall  be  your  bread.1? 

So  were  they  satisfied, 

Mary  and  Joseph  and  Jesus, 

All  by  the  grey  road-side. 

200 


From  Herod  they  were  fled 
Over  the  desert  wide, 
Mary  and  Joseph  and  Jesus, 
In  Egypt  to  abide: 
Mary  and  Joseph  and  Jesus, 
In  Egypt  to  abide. 

The  blessed  Queen  of  Heaven 
Her  own  dear  Son  hath  given 
For  my  son's  sake;  his  sleep 
Is  safe  and  sweet  and  deep. 

Lully  . .  .  Lulley  . .  . 
So  may  you  sleep  alway, 
My  baby,  my  dear  son: 
Amen,  Amen,  Amen. 

My  baby,  my  dear  son. 

ADELAIDE  CEAPSET 


HIS  MOTHER  IN  HER  HOOD  OF  BLUE 

WHEN  Jesus  was  a  little  thing, 
His  mother,  in  her  hood  of  blue, 
Called  to  Him  through  the  dusk  of  spring: 
"Jesus,  my  Jesus,  where  are  you?" 
201 


Caught  in  a  gust  of  whirling  bloom, 
She  stood  a  moment  at  the  door, 
Then  lit  the  candle  in  the  room, 
In  its  pink  earthen  bowl  of  yore. 

The  little  Jesus  saw  it  all;  — 
The  blur  of  yellow  in  the  street; 
The  fair  trees  by  the  tumbling  wall; 
The  shadowy  other  lads,  whose  feet 

Struck  a  quick  noise  from  out  the  grass; 
He  saw,  dim  in  the  half-lit  air, 
As  one  sees  folk  within  a  glass, 
His  mother  with  her  candle  there. 

Jesus!  Jesus! 

When  He  a  weary  man  became, 
I  think,  as  He  went  to  and  fro, 
He  heard  her  calling  just  the  same 
Across  that  dusk  so  long  ago. 

Jesus! 

For  men  were  tired  that  had  been  bold;  — 
And  strange  indeed  this  should  befall  — 
One  day  so  hot,  one  day  so  cold  — 
But  mothers  never  change  at  all. 

Jesus! 

LlZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE 
202 


GREEN  CROSSES 

AT  the  back  of  the  pompous  houses, 

Above  the  beautiful  river-way, 

A  row  of  squalid  barrels 

Blush  at  themselves  in  the  morning  light. 

From  one  grotesquely  leaning, 

Dusty  and  scarred 

Amid  the  dead,  forgotten  slag  and  ashes, 

A  fir-tree  thrusts  its  live,  protesting  fingers  — 

Grosses  of  green. 

About  it  still  cling  a  few  silver  cobwebs, 

Rags  of  its  brief  splendor. 

It  was  the  Christmas  Tree 

That  graced  the  cheerful  drawing-room 

A  little  while; 

That  blessed  the  comfortable  house  with  its  fragrance, 

And  with  its  symbols  of  love, 

The  small  green  crosses. 

A  pinched,  pale  child  with  hungry  eyes, 
Ragged  and  wolfish,  but  with  wisps  of  glory 
Still  haloing  her  hair, 
Comes  with  her  bag  of  rubbish, 
Her  eyes  brighten; 
She  sets  down  her  heavy  burden, 
She  forgets  the  cold  as  she  picks  at  the  little  tree, 
Plucks  eagerly  at  the  fragile  cobwebs; 
203 


They  are  so  silvery  few! 

But  they  do  not  go  into  the  heavy  sack. 

Her  thin,  blue  fingers  snap  one  of  the  green  crosses; 

She  twists  the  tinsel  thread  about  it, 

And  sticks  it  in  her  breast. 

Then  she  shoulders  her  bundle  of  trash, 

And  stumbles  away,  smiling. 

The  green  crosses,  alive  in  the  dust! 

The  Christmas  Tree! 

The  evergreen  tree  whose  roots  are  cut  — 

On  the  dump  it  will  die! 

The  Christmas  Tree! 

What  if  this  ornament  of  brief  holidays, 

This  plaything  of  a  favored  few, 

This  strong,  slow-murdered  creature  of  pure  woods, 

With  its  green  crosses, 

Were  really  growing! 

If  it  were  rooted  in  the  hearts 

Of  Christendom! 

How  different  a  world  would  see  this  sunny  morning! 

No  war;  no  hate; 

No  want  nor  selfishness; 

No  ragged  children,  starved  for  tinsel  joys, 

Furtively  clutching  at  rejected  beauty 

On  a  forgotten  cross, 

The  green  cross  of  Love. 

ABBIE  FARWELL  BROWN 

204 


"EVEN  THE  LEAST  OF  THESE" 

HEEDLESS  of  other  toys  from  Christmas  trees, 

To  the  earth's  round  globe  my  young  son  turned  his  face, 

When  he  discovered  that  he  could  with  ease 

The  gaily  tinted  countries  find  and  trace, 

With  joy  his  arms  encircled  lands  and  seas, 

Both  hemispheres  were  clasped  in  his  embrace. 

The  world  was  sheltered  upon  Youth's  warm  breast, 
In  Youth's  pure  love  the  nations  lay  at  rest. 

ADA  M.  ROBEETS 


WINTER'S  TURNING 

SNOW  is  still  on  the  ground, 
But  there  is  a  golden  brightness  in  the  air. 
Across  the  river, 
Blue, 
Blue, 

Sweeping  widely  under  the  arches 
Of  many  bridges, 
Is  a  spire  and  a  dome, 
Clear  as  though  ringed  with  ice-flakes, 
Golden,  and  pink,  and  jocund. 
On  a  near-by  steeple, 
205 


A  golden  weather-cock  flashes  smartly, 

His  open  beak  "  Cock-a-doodle-dooing " 

Straight  at  the  ear  of  Heaven. 

A  tall  apartment  house, 

Crocus-coloured, 

Thrusts  up  from  the  street 

Like  a  new-sprung  flower. 

Another  street  is  edged  and  patterned 

With  the  bloom  of  bricks, 

Houses  and  houses  of  rose-red  bricks, 

Every  window  a-glitter. 

The  city  is  a  parterre, 

Blowing  and  glowing, 

Alight  with  the  wind, 

Washed  over  with  gold  and  mercury. 

Let  us  throw  up  our  hats, 

For  we  are  past  the  age  of  balls 

And  have  none  handy. 

Let  us  take  hold  of  hands, 

And  race  along  the  sidewalks, 

And  dodge  the  traffic  in  crowded  streets. 

Let  us  whir  with  the  golden  spoke-wheels 

Of  the  sun. 

For  to-morrow  Winter  drops  into  the  waste-basket, 

And  the  calendar  calls  it  March. 

AMY  LOWELL 


206 


PROMISE 

infant  fact 
Each  year  sends  forth. 


A  thousand  infant  faces,  soft  and  sweet, 


SARA  COLERIDGE 


THE  winds  of  March  blow  down  the  frozen  ways; 
Snow  melts;  runnels  meander  through  a  maze 
Of  broken  channels. 

The  sun  is  warm;  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
Though  leafless,  yet  are  quickened  by  degrees 
With  hidden  life. 

Behind  the  bark  new  buds  await  the  hour 
When,  venturing  forth,  slowly  they  grow  to  flower 
In  strength  and  grace. 

Spring  is  the  herald  of  the  summer-time, 
As  freighted  argosies  in  former  time 
Foreshadowed  wealth, 

Bearing  their  burden  from  a  southern  land, 
Spices  from  India,  silks  from  Samarcand 
To  homeland  port. 

Perchance  unseen  our  treasure-galleon  lies 
Beyond  our  sight,  bearing  a  richer  prize, 
Immortal  freight, 

207 


Our  spring's  desired  flower,  small  and  furled, 
Brought  from  the  garden  of  another  world 
Whose  God  is  Love. 

NORREYS  JEPHSON  O'CoNoit 


THE  WAKEFUL  DARK 

THERE  is  a  crowd  upon  the  air  to-night; 

The  leaves  are  out, 

Clustered  and  gathered  to  the  farthest  tip 

Of  the  dim  branches'  edge. 

All  in  a  day,  the  wet  wind  called 

And  they  rushed  forth, 

Bearing  the  fragrance  of  the  trees'  deep  heart 

In  their  unfolding  wings. 

The  dark  is  thickly  plumed  and  tufted  where 

They  wait,  a  misty,  swinging  crowd 

Too  glad  for  sleep. 

Beside  my  window,  restless  too,  I  stand 

Athirst  like  leaf  and  garden 

For  the  day. 

And  when  the  moist  wind,  groping  for  more  sweet, 

Lilac  or  violet,  or  the  new,  slim  buds, 

Touches  my  face, 

208 


I  feel  the  petals  of  my  heart 
Tremble  and  open  wide, 
As  if  it  too 
Had  bloomed  upon  the  night. 

HOETENSE  FLEXNEB 


AS  WE  GO  ON 

As  we  go  on,  grow  older,  grow  more  wise, 
Grow  friendlier  with  every  friendly  thing, 
The  honourable  trees,  grave  dusk,  the  swing 
Of  upland  meadows  upward  to  the  skies, 
And  even  the  old  new  fraudulent  surprise 
Of  that  quaint  smiling  paradox  the  spring, 
How  greatly  beauty  once  again  can  bring 
In  smaller  ways  tears  to  our  tenderer  eyes. 

We  do  not  wait  on  mountains  or  on  seas, 
For  there 's  a  little  lake  between  the  hills, 
That  rustles  with  the  sedges  and  the  bees; 
And  great  adventure  found  in  daffodils 
Stirs  April  gardens,  when  the  world  again 
Is  quick  with  mice  and  moles,  crickets  and  men. 

MAXWELL  STRUTHERS  BURT 


209 


OUT  OF  THE  DESERT 

OUT  of  this  little  and  this  nothingness 

I  will  build  slowly  what  cannot  be  effaced, 

There  shall  come  sound  of  iron  hammers  ringing 

And  groining  arches  like  fingers  interlaced; 

Each  youth  a  king  who  walks  the  common  kingdom, 

Clad  in  the  seamless  robe,  with  lifted  head; 

Each  girl  a  queen,  love's  roses  in  her  bosom, 

Walking  beside  him  with  an  equal  tread. 

I  will  set  song  upon  the  lips  of  singers 

Who  slumber  still  uncalled  from  out  the  dust, 

I  will  light  fires  upon  unnumbered  altars, 

Love  shall  be  honest,  justice  shall  be  just. 

I  have  not  cried  alone  within  the  desert, 

Ye  go  not  out  to  find  a  broken  reed; 

I  have  clasped  Him  who  walks  the  pillared  darkness, 

I  have  not  wrestled  with  Him  feeble-kneed. 

About  my  loins  I  gird  a  sword  that  flashes 

With  lightnings  hidden  in  the  marching  cloud; 

I  break  above  your  heads  the  awful  tablets, 

And  fling  the  fragments  to  the  wheeling  crowd. 

Out  of  such  sowing  shall  come  mighty  reaping^ 

Hearts  are  the  fields,  and  songs  the  seed  I  sow: 

Ye  shall  not  know  until  the  time  of  reaping 

What  hand  upheld  me,  but  I  know,  I  know! 

WILLARD  WATTLES 

210 


LIFE 

THEY  do  not  live  who  only  know 
The  dull  procession  of  Life's  flow, 
They  have  no  faith  who  never 
Risk  all,  and  in  one  hour  of  youth 
Reach  the  subliminal  self  where  Truth 
Floods  light  and  crowns  endeavour. 

They  do  not  die  who  find  in  death 
The  great  adventure,  the  first  breath 
Whence  came  this  life  from  God: 
Who,  taking  wings,  laugh  down  at  earth, 
Leap  skywards,  and  with  boyish  mirth 
Run  where  the  angels  trod. 

CECIL  ROBEKTS 

EVERY  ONE  SANG 

EVERY  one  suddenly  burst  out  singing; 
And  I  was  filled  with  such  delight 
As  prisoned  birds  must  find  in  freedom, 
Winging  wildly  across  the  white 
Orchards  and  dark-green  fields; 

on  —  on  —  and  out  of  sight. 

Every  one's  voice  was  suddenly  lifted; 
And  beauty  came  like  the  setting  sun: 
211 


My  heart  was  shaken  with  tears;  and  horroi 
Drifted  away  ...  0,  but  Every  one 
Was  a  bird;  and  the  song  was  wordless; 
the  singing  will  never  be  done. 

SIEGFRIED  SASSOON 

THE  SINGERS  IN  A  CLOUD 

OVERHEAD  at  sunset  all  heard  the  choir. 
Nothing  could  be  seen  except  jewelled  grey 
Raining  beauty  earthward,  flooding  with  desire 
All  things  that  listened  there  in  the  broken  day; 
Songs  from  freer  breathers,  their  imprisoned  fire 
Out  of  cloudy  fountains,  flying  and  hurled, 
Fell  and  warmed  the  world. 

Sudden  came  a  wind  and  birds  were  laid  bare, 
Only  music  warmed  them  round  their  brown  breasts. 
They  had  sent  the  splendours  pouring  through  the  air, 
Love  was  their  heat  and  home  far  above  their  nests. 
Light  went  softly  out  and  left  their  voices  there. 
Starward  passed  for  ever  all  that  great  cry, 
Burning,  round  the  sky. 

On  the  earth  the  battles  war  against  light, 

Heavy  lies  the  harrow,  bitter  the  field. 

Beauty,  like  a  river  running  through  the  night, 

Streams  past  the  stricken  one  whom  it  would  have  healed 

212 


But  the  darkened  faces  turn  away  from  sight. 
Blind,  bewildered  nations  sow,  reap,  and  fall, 
Shadows  gather  all. 

Far  above  the  birdsong  bright  shines  the  gold. 
Through  the  starry  orchards  earth's  paths  are  hung; 
As  she  moves  among  them  glowing  fruits  unfold,  • 
Such  that  the  heavens  there  reawaken  young. 
Overhead  is  beauty,  healing  for  the  old. 
Overhead  is  morning,  nothing  but  youth, 
Only  lovely  youth. 


RlDGELY  TORRENCE 


HEROES 


FAIR  is  their  fame  who  stand  in  earth's  high  places, 
Rulers  of  men,  strong-armed  to  break  and  bind. 

Fairer  the  light  which  shines  from  comrade  faces: 
Those  we  have  loved,  and  lost,  and  kept  in  mind. 

These  be  our  heroes,  hearts  unnamed  in  story, 
Foot-firm  that  stood,  and  swerved  not  from  the  right; 

Though  in  the  world's  eyes  they  attained  no  glory, 
Girt  to  their  goal  they  gained  the  wished-for  height. 

Now  for  reward  no  after-age  shall  sunder 
These  from  their  right  to  rest  without  a  name. 

Wide  are  the  wings  of  heaven  which  fold  them  under, 
Who  to  the  Winds  of  God  resign  their  fame. 

213 


Blow,  ye  great  Winds!  Where'er  man's  spirit  labours 
Breathe  on  his  lips  breath  from  the  life  they  spent! 

Comrades  to  all  their  kind,  dear  friends  and  neighbors, 
There,  where  the  work  goes  well,  they  rest  content. 

They  are  the  race,  —  they  are  the  race  immortal, 
Whose  beams  make  broad  the  common  light  of  day! 

Though  Time  may  dim,  though  Death  hath  barred  their  portal, 
These  we  salute,  which  nameless  passed  away. 

LAURENCE  HOUSMAN 


THE  DIVINE  STRATEGY 

No  soul  can  be  forever  banned, 

Eternally  bereft, 
Whoever  falls  from  God's  right  hand 

Is  caught  into  his  left. 

EDWIN  MARKHAM 


AMERICA 

SHE  is  young  and  beautiful  —  my  country  — 
Mother  of  many  children. 
She  is  free. 
Years  ago, 

A  slim  girl  running  on  sea  sand, 
She  heard  Niagara  shouting  the  message  of  mountains, 
214 


And  the  great  lakes  singing  softly 

Of  prairies  that  swing  in  the  wind. 

How  could  she  stay,  keeping  soft  and  white  her  rich  and 

powerful  hands? 

She  rose  and  walked  like  the  sun  into  the  west: 
Sowing,  reaping,  felling  the  forests, 
Digging  out  coal  and  iron  and  gold  from  the  hills. 
Onward,  outward  — 
Past  rivers  like  a  sea, 

And  mountains  that  snowily,  secretly,  kiss  the  moon  — 
Out  to  shining  Arizona  athirst  in  the  sun 
And  Oregon  shaggy  with  firs  by  her  northern  ocean, 
Whom  the  silver  Sierras  link  together  forever* 

And  she  gathered  the  children  of  many  races  into  her  arms, 
And  said,  "Hate  dies  here  —  be  brothers." 
She  lifted  the  humble  to  the  high  place, 
And  the  proud  she  rebuked  with  a  laugh. 

At  ease  in  her  strength  she  lay  dreaming 
When  the  heat  of  the  day  was  done. 
But  suddenly  —  far  away  — 
Out  of  the  thick  black  night,  out  of  the  past, 
Came  the  terrible  booming  of  guns, 
The  tramp  of  armies,  marching  over  fallen  towers, 
Over  cottages  collapsing  into  dust. 
And  through  the  iron  clamor  she  heard  agony  calling  — - 
215 


The  bitter  cries  of  children  starved  and  driven, 

Of  young  girls  ravished, 

Of  boys  ripped  open  on  the  trench-strung  field; 

And  the  dull  groans  of  the  old 

Prodded  from  the  flaming  door. 

Once  more  the  incredible  thing  — 

The  tyrant  gorged  and  ruthless 

Spitting  red  war  in  the  face  of  the  world! 

Once  more  Freedom  at  bay  —  threatened,  defiant  — 

Calling  her  chosen, 

Lifting  her  rainbow-colored  flags  to  the  sun! 

My  country, 

Beautiful  and  strong, 

Startled,  slowly  arising, 

Hearing  at  last  the  insult, 

Feeling  the  crimson  mist  in  her  eyes, 

My  country  stood  up  tall  to  the  height  of  the  world  - 

Straight  and  tall, 

From  the  blue  Caribbean  at  her  feet 

To  her  coronal  of  islands 

Strung  from  the  Arctic  sea. 

And  she  summoned  her  states, 

And  breathed  in  their  ears  the  iron  vow  of  war  — 

War  to  the  end,  to  the  death,  war  to  the  life, 

War  of  the  free,  for  the  free,  till  the  world  is  freed. 

216 


She  gathered  her  armies, 

Her  millions  of  sons, 

And  loosed  them  like  flakes  of  snow  to  the  storm, 

Bidding  them  cover  and  smother  and  put  out  forever 

The  abysmal  abominable  fires. 

In  massive  drifts  she  hurled  them, 

Over  land  and  sea  and  through  blue  trails  of  air  — 

Crystal  souls  of  youth, 

That  seized  the  sun  in  a  flash 

And  flung  it  to  whatever  eye  would  see, 

Spending,  giving  their  light,  lest  it  be  put  out  in  the  wind. 

She  bade  them  move  innumerably,  mass  on  mass, 

To  smother  and  quench  forever  the  infernal  fires, 

And  nourish  the  new  spring  — 

The  flower-fringed  hope  of  the  world. 

O  my  country,  , 

Seeker  of  freedom, 

How  shall  she  pause  in  the  ways  of  peace  or  war 

On  her  long  march  toward  the  far-off  invisible  goal  — 

The  city  of  white  towers, 

The  city  of  love, 

Where  the  nations  of  the  earth  shall  meet  in  joy  together, 

And  the  souls  of  men  shall  be  free! 

HARRIET  MONROE 


217 


IN  SALUTATION  TO  THE  ETERNAL  PEACE 

MEN  say  the  world  is  full  of  fear  and  hate, 
And  all  life's  ripening  harvest-fields  await 
The  restless  sickle  of  relentless  fate. 

But  I,  sweet  Soul,  rejoice  that  I  was  born, 
When  from  the  climbing  terraces  of  corn 
I  wa,tch  the  golden  orioles  of  Thy  morn. 

What  care  I  for  the  world's  desire  and  pride, 
Who  know  the  silver  wings  that  gleam  and  glide, 
The  homing  pigeons  of  Thine  eventide? 

What  care  I  for  the  world's  loud  weariness, 
Who  dream  in  twilight  granaries  Thou  dost  bless 
With  delicate  sheaves  of  mellow  silences? 

SAROJINI  NAIDU 


JOY  TO  YOU 

JOT  to  you  and  gladness, 
And  that  your  soul  may  be 

As  far  away  from  sadness 
As  the  star  was  from  the  sea, 

When  the  Sheep-Boy,  the  Sheep-Boy, 
Heard  Heaven's  melody. 

218 


Smiles  to  you  and  laughter, 

And  also  that  you  may 
Be  merry  the  morning  after 

On  good  St.  Stephen's  Day, 
When  the  Wren-Boy,  the  Wren-Boy, 

Shall  sing  his  roundelay. 

Joy  to  you  and  gladness, 

And  that  the  mid-night  bell 
May  ring  away  the  sadness 

From  the  stricken  old  year's  knell, 
When  the  Chimes-Boy,  the  Chimes-Boy, 

Strikes  "Welcome"  and  "Farewell." 

FRANCIS  CARLIN 

COURAGE,  ALL! 

OLD  gods,  avaunt!  The  rosy  East  is  waking, 

And  in  the  dawn  your  shapes  of  clay  are  shaking: 

Ye  broke  men's  hearts,  and  now  your  own  are  breaking. 

Over  all  lands  a  winged  hope  is  flying: 

It  goes  without  reproof,  without  replying: 

It  bears  God's  courage  to  the  dulled  and  dying. 

The  rusted  chain  that  bound  the  world  is  broken; 
A  new  strange  star  pricks  down  the  night  for  token; 
And  the  Great  Word  is  waiting  to  be  spoken! 

EDWIN  MARKHAM 
219 


SONG  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD 

I  SING  the  song  of  a  new  Dawn  waking, 
A  new  wind  shaking 

The  children  of  men. 
I  say  the  hearts  that  are  nigh  to  breaking 

Shall  leap  with  gladness  and  live  again. 
Over  the  woe  of  the  world  appalling, 

Wild  and  sweet  as  a  bugle  cry, 
Sudden  I  hear  a  new  voice  calling  — 

"Beauty  is  nigh!" 
Beauty  is  nigh!  Let  the  world  believe  it. 

Love  has  covered  the  fields  of  dead. 
Healing  is  here!  Let  the  earth  receive  it, 

Greeting  the  Dawn  with  lifted  head. 
I  sing  the  song  of  the  sin  forgiven, 

The  deed  forgotten,  the  wrong  undone. 
Lo,  in  the  East,  where  the  dark  is  riven, 

Shines  the  rim  of  the  rising  sun. 
Healing  is  here!  0  brother,  sing  it! 

Laugh,  0  heart,  that  has  grieved  so  long. 
Love  will  gather  your  woe  and  fling  it 

Over  the  world  in  waves  of  song. 
Hearken,  mothers,  and  hear  them  coming— 

Heralds  crying  the  day  at  hand. 
Faint  and  far  as  the  sound  of  drumming, 

Hear  their  summons  across  the  land. 

220 


Look,  0  fathers!  Your  eyes  were  holden  — 

Armies  throng  where  the  dead  have  lain. 
Fiery  steeds  and  chariots  golden  — 

Gone  is  the  dream  of  soldiers  slain. 
Sing,  0  sing  of  a  new  world  waking, 

Sing  of  creation  just  begun. 
Glad  is  the  earth  when  morn  is  breaking  — 

Man  is  facing  the  rising  sun! 

ANGELA  MORGAN 

THE  COMING  OF  DAWN 

MIDNIGHT  —  the  black,  dead  vast  of  night, 

Rain  dripping  slow  on  the  sod, 
Fear  of  the  future,  darkness-born, 

Doubt  of  myself  and  God. 

A  sudden  flush  on  the  face  of  night, 

A  veil  from  my  soul  withdrawn, 
A  bird-note  thrilling  the  silence  through. 

And  after  that  —  the  dawn. 

GRACE  ATHERTON  DENNEN 

A  NEW  STAR 

MY  soul  has  brought  forth  a  new  star 

of  great  lustre,  peopled  with  a  new 
race  of  men. 

221 


It  swings  in  a  new  sky,  upheld  between 

the  visible  poles  of  Truth  and 

Mercy. 
The  clouds  pour  rains  of  heavenly  Pity, 

the  mornings  beam  with  rays  of 

Charity, 
The  waters  taste  ambrosia-sweet  and 

murmur  the  song  of  Forgiveness, 
The  girdling  forests  are  full  of  trees  and 

creepers  bearing  fruits  called  Right, 

Faith,  Knowledge,  Peace  and  Wisdom. 
The  air  is  fragrant  with  the  scent  of 

honey-flowers  —  it  is  so  sweet  a 

thing  to  breathe! 
There  Jt  is  a  wondrous  joy  to  see  the 

hearts  and  thoughts  of  men, 
And  women  are  fair  of  soul  as  they  are 

fair  of  face. 
There  birds  and  beasts  and  fish  and 

worms  are  good  and  beautiful, 
And  live  and  work  in  mutual  trust  and 

sweet  humility. 
And  the  bright  gods  sit  in  the  blue 

halls  of  light  and  rule  the  true- 

souled  denizens  of  my  star  at  the 

command  of  Love-born  Harmony. 

SRI  ANANDA  ACHARYA 

222 


SEMI-CHORUSES  AND  CHORUS  FROM  "THE 
DYNASTS" 

"To  Thee  whose  eye  all  Nature  owns, 
Who  hurlest  Dynasts  from  their  thrones, 
And  liftest  those  of  low  estate 
We  sing,  with  Her  men  consecrate!" 

"Yea,  Great  and  Good,  Thee,  Thee  we  hail, 
Who  shak'st  the  strong,  Who  shield'st  the  frail, 
Who  hadst  not  shaped  such  souls  as  we 
If  tender  mercy  lacked  in  Thee!" 

"Though  times  be  when  the  mortal  moan 
Seems  unascending  to  Thy  throne, 
Though  seers  do  not  as  yet  explain 
Why  Suffering  sobs  to  Thee  in  vain;" 

"We  hold  that  Thy  unscanted  scope 
Affords  a  food  for  final  Hope, 
That  mild-eyed  Prescience  ponders  nigh 
Life's  loom,  to  lull  it  by-and-by." 

"Therefore  we  quire  to  highest  height 
The  Wellwiller,  the  kindly  Might 
That  balances  the  Vast  for  weal, 
That  purges  as  by  wounds  to  heal." 

223 


Chorus 

But  —  a  stirring  thrills  the  air 
Like  to  sounds  of  joyance  there 
That  the  rages 
Of  the  ages 
Shall  be  cancelled,  and  deliverance  offered  from  the  darts  that 

were, 

Consciousness  the  Will  informing,  till  It  fashion  all  things  fair! 

THOMAS  HARDY 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


^CHARYA,  SRI  ANANDA,  90,  221. 

AlKEN,  CONRAD,  110. 

ALDINGTON,  RICHARD,  44. 

AUSLANDER,  JOSEPH,  21. 

BAKER,  KARLE  WILSON,  14,  42,  85. 
BATES,  KATHARINE  LEE.  197. 
BEER,  MORRIS  ABEL,  102. 
BENET,  WILLIAM  ROSE,  38,  48. 
BINYON,  LAURENCE,  170,  177. 
BRADFORD,  GAMALIEL,  173. 
BRANCH,  ANNA  HEMPSTEAD,  185. 
BROWN,  ABBIE  FARWELL,  145,  203. 
BURNET,  DANA,  172. 
BURR,  AMELIA  JOSEPHINE,  57,  63. 
BURT,  MAXWELL  STRUTHERS,  183, 

209. 
BYNNER,  WITTER,  125,  136. 

CAMPBELL,  JOSEPH,  111. 
CAMMAERTS,  EMILE,  136. 
CARLIN,  FRANCIS,  99,  218. 
CARMAN,  BLISS,  16. 
CLARK,  B.  PRESTON,  JR.,  18. 
CLEGHORN,  SARAH  N.,  147. 
COATES,  FLORENCE  EARLE,  114, 175. 
CONKLING,  GRACE  HAZARD,  6,  79. 
CONKLING,  HILDA,  62. 
CRAPSEY,  ADELAIDE,  200. 
CROMWELL,  GLADYS,  103. 


DALY,    THOMAS    AUGUSTINE, 
161. 


DAVIES,  MARY  CAROLYN,  78. 
DAVIES,  WILLIAM  H.,  32,  37. 
DAVIS,  FANNIE  STEARNS,  53,  95. 
DE  LA  MARE,  WALTER,  31,   163, 

192. 

DENNEN,  GRACE  ATEERTON,  221. 
DRINKWATER,  JOHN,  76,  104. 
DRISCOLL,  LOUISE,  22,  60. 

EVANS,  FLORENCE  WILKINSON,  174. 

FARRAR,  JOHN  CHIPMAN,  146,  184. 
FINLEY,  JOHN,  106,  135. 
FLETCHER,  JOHN  GOULD,  79. 
FLEXNER,  HORTENSE,  191,  208. 
FORT,  PAUL,  195. 

FOSTER,  JEANNE  ROBERT,  89,  181. 
FROST,  ROBERT,  43,  194,  195. 
FURSE,  MARGARET  CECILIA,  70. 
FYLEMAN,  ROSE,  145. 


GARRISON,  THEODOSIA,  68. 
GRAVES,  ROBERT,  105. 
GRIFFITH,  WILLIAM,  36. 
GUERIN,  CHARLES,  112. 
GUITERMAN,  ARTHUR,  99,  187. 


HAGEDORN,  HERMANN,  98. 
HALL,  AMANDA  BENJAMIN,  154. 
HARDY,  THOMAS,  223. 
HARE,  AMORY,  41,  93. 
19,    HEATH,  ELLA  CROSBY,  10. 
HENDERSON,  DANIEL,  165. 
227 


HILLYER,  ROBERT,  94. 
HOUSMAN,  LAURENCE,  213. 

JOHNSON,  VLTN,  83. 

JONES,  THOMAS  S.,  JB.,  14, 47,  108. 

KEMP,  HARRY,  71,  93. 
KETCHUM,  ARTHUR,  77,  141. 
KILMER,  ALINE,  131. 
KILMER,  JOYCE,  86. 
KIPLING,  RUDYARD,  4. 
KNIBBS,  HENRY  HERBERT,  157. 

LEAMY,  EDMUND,  164. 
LEDWIDOE,  FRANCIS,  20. 
LEE,  HARRY,  167. 
LE  GALLIENNE,  RICHARD,  9,  64. 
LETTS,  W.  M.,  54. 
LEWISOHN,  LUDWIG,  195. 
LINDSAY,  \ACHEL,  118,  128. 
Low,  BENJAMIN  R.  C.,  46,  58. 
LOWELL,  AMY,  47,  166,  205. 

MCCARTHY,  DENIS  A.,  54. 

MACCATHMHAOIL,  SEO8AMH,  111. 

MCLANE,  JAMES  L.,  JR.,  Ill,  119. 
MARKHAM,  EDWIN,  125,  214,  219. 
MARQUIS,  DON,  199. 
MASEFIELD,  JOHN,  91,  178. 
MASTERS,  EDGAR  LEE,  159. 
MERRILL,  STUART,  24. 

MlDDLETON,  SCUDDER,  97,  113. 

MILLAY,  EDNA  ST.  VINCENT,  63, 

158. 

MONRO,  HAROLD,  72,  196. 
MONROE,  HARRIET,  214. 
MOODY,  WILLIAM  VAUGHN,  2. 
MORGAN,  ANGELA,  25,  220. 
MORLEY,  CHRISTOPHER,  131. 
MORTON,  DAVID,  8,  33,  75. 


NAIDU,  SAROJINI,  218. 
NICHOLS,  ROBERT,  17. 
NOGUCHI,  YONE,  116. 
NORTON,  HON.  ELEANOUB,  152. 
NOYES,  ALFRED,  11,  149. 

O'BRIEN,  EDWARD  J.,  103. 

O'CONOR,  NORREYS  JEPHSON,    207. 

OLIVER,  IAN,  45. 
O'NEIL,  GEORGE,  69. 
OPPENHEIM,  JAMES,  117. 
OXENHAM,  JOHN,  132. 

PAINE,  ALBERT  BIGELOW,  114. 
PALAMAS,  KOSTES,  89. 
PATTERSON,  ANTOINETTE  DE  COUR- 

SEY,  144. 
PEABODY,     JOSEPHINE     PRESTON, 

139. 

PERCY,  WILLIAM  ALEXANDER,  151. 
PHILLPOTTS,  EDEN,  189. 
PHIPPS,  SARAH  METCALF,  35. 
PHOUTRIDES,  ARISTIDES  E.,  89. 

REESE,  LIZETTE  WOOBWORTH,  192, 

201. 

RICE,  GALE  YOUNG,  110,  176. 
RlTTENHOUSE,  JESSIE  B.,  95. 
ROBERTS,  ADA  M.,  205. 
ROBERTS,  CECIL,  211. 
ROBINSON,  CORINNE  ROOSEVELT,  81. 
ROBINSON,  EDWIN  ARLINGTON,  50. 
ROSTREVOR,  GEORGE,  70. 

SANDBURG,  CARL,  23. 
SARETT,  LEW,  155,  184. 
SASSOON,  SIEGFRIED,  211. 

SCHAUFFLER,    ROBERT   HAVEN,    73, 

142. 

SCOLLABD,  CLINTON,  15,  27. 


SMITH,  C.  Fox,  171. 
SMITH,  MARIAN  COUTHOUT,  84. 
SMITH,  MAY  RILEY,  65,  165. 
SMITH,  NORA  ARCHIBALD,  198. 
SORLEY,  CHARLES  HAMILTON,  107. 
SPEYER,  LEONORA,  29,  72. 
SPRING-RICE,  SIR  CECIL  ARTHUR, 

134. 

SQUIRE,  J.  C.,  120. 
STERLING,  GEORGE,  5,  147. 
STORK,  CHARLES  WHARTON,   117, 

150. 

%  TEASDALE,  SARA,  3,  94,  109,  180, 
THOMAS,  EDITH  M.,  153. 
THOMAS,  EDWARD,  23. 
THOMPSON,  RALPH  M..  167. 
THORLEY,  WILFRED,  24,  112. 
TIETJENS,  EUNICE,  41,  96. 

TORRENCE,  RlDGELY,  212. 

TOWNE,  CHARLES  HANSON,  7,  67. 


TREE,  IRIS,  138. 
TUDOR,  MARIE,  34. 
TURNER,  NANCY  BYRD,  45. 
TURNER,  W.  J.,  13. 

UNTERMEYER,  Louis,  126,  168. 

WAGSTAFF,  BLANCHE  SHOEMAKBB, 

27. 

WARREN,  GRETCHEN  O.,  190. 
WATTLES,  WILLARD,  210. 
WELLES,  WINIFRED,  13,  141. 
WHARTON,  EDITH,  140. 
WHEELOCK,  JOHN  HALL,  86,  124. 
WHITING,  FREDERIC  A.,  148. 
WIDDEMER,  MARGARET,  52. 
WILKINSON,  MARGUERITE,  28,  69. 
WOOD,  CLEMENT,  100,  189. 

WOODBERRY,  GEORGE  EDWARD,  40, 

178. 
YEATS,  WILLIAM  BUTLER,  156. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


3  0     U)29 


1929 
DEC  1  5  1930 


-Si 


F  IS  -34 


K53 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


